


Concussions

by Foureyed_Pufferfish



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Empurata, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foureyed_Pufferfish/pseuds/Foureyed_Pufferfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having angered the senate,  Ratchet wakes in the Kaonian gutters, starving and mutilated.  Only through the kindness of a passing archivist does he stand a chance at survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick notes on terminology:  
> I'm using earth based times as I believe terms like "orn" or "joor" can break the flow of the story. However I will be using both "year" and "vorn", vorn being 83 years.
> 
> The terms "Empurata" and "Empurat" mean different things here. Empurata is the procedure that replaces the helm and hands; Empurat is used as a noun, referring to someone who has had Empurata preformed.
> 
> Lastly, this story takes place in an au that is a mesh between IDW and Prime verse, leaning more towards IDW for history, while the characters (other than Wheeljack) are from Prime in all but appearance.

A medic had once told him that Cybertronians could process solid fuels with as much efficiency as its liquid counterpart. The reason, then, that energon was so thoroughly processed was to clear it of the impurities that manifested within the raw crystals. Over time those impurities would build in a mech's systems and cause a number of malfunctions. A blocked valve in a mech's tank would result in starvation, no matter how much fuel the mech took in. A clogged energon line could burst, draining a mech in seconds. If the vein was close enough to the spark chamber it was almost guaranteed to be an agonizing death.

Orion had seen mechs eat solids before, it was almost inevitable this deep into the slums of Kaon where mechs could not afford processed energon. And yet the sight of this bot made him pause. He sat huddled against the wall of a crumbling building, a cube in his lap, filled a forth of the way with small crystal shards. The solid beads of energon would have been difficult for an average mech to pick up one by one, and yet this mech had no fingers, no true hands. Instead he possessed talon like pincers on each wrist. The energon slipped away from him each time he managed to grab a shard. 

When the bot managed to secure a single shard between his claws he often lost it attempting to maneuver the piece into the intake hidden under his faceless helm. His pincers slipped sideways and the recently secured energon skidded across the ground to land at Orion Pax's pedes. He stooped to retrieve the fragment, holding it out to the gutter's mech. The mech made no move to retrieve his fuel, instead glaring up at the well polished Iaconian before him.

After a tense moment of silence he spoke, voice free of the rasp most lower class mechs possessed. “The pit do you want?”

Orion took a step back, providing the other with a measure of space. He suddenly found himself less confident in his choice to not simply walk by. "I-I was just-."

"Whatever, kid," the mech brushed him off with the wave of one claw, which he quickly hid back in his lap once he caught sight of it. "Just throw it in here." He held out the cube, watching Orion expectantly. Pax glanced down at the mostly empty cube. It was obvious by the scrapes to its surface that it had never been filled more than halfway. Who knew how long this mech had been struggling with this one cube, attempting to feed himself.

Orion pulled back, taking the small shard with him. "How about a trade?" He pulled a cube of mid-grade from his subspace, holding it out instead. "I've never had solid energon before." 

The mech's one optic surveyed him wearily. "If you haven't noticed, I don't really have a mouth. Drinking that's going to be a bit of an issue." Orion smiled sheepishly, fishing about in his subspace again until he came forth with a straw. This time the mech took the mid-grade, offering up his cube in return. 

"I'm Orion Pax." The archivist settled himself gingerly upon the rusted ground, back against the wall. Slowly, he raised an energon shard to his lips. The taste was not very pleasant, but the crunch of it between his denta was oddly satisfying. The other watched him as he sipped at his own fuel.

"Ratchet," he mumbled eventually. 

"Ratchet?" Orion mumbled, startled. "That doesn't sound like a Kaonian designation." 

The other mech's broad shoulders pulled up into a shrug. "Mechs move." Orion let the subject drop, instead crunching on another handful of crystals.

Another moment of awkward silence and Orion activated his vocoder again. “Do you have a place to recharge?”

Ratchet stared at him, mono-ocular gaze boring into Orion's innocent one. “I'm sitting in an alley.” The archivist dropped his helm, cheeks heating as he stared at his pedes. He'd dealt with gladiators often, though Megatronus was a fairly well off gladiator. Gutter mechs, however, were far out of his comfort zone. Over his time conversing with Megatronus, Orion had worked fiercely to eliminate any prejudice thoughts he personally found himself acting upon. Empties, Skives, Leakers and Empurats, however, still made him nervous. This mech was only the latter, but his appearance still brought fourth a measure of anxiety in Orion. 

“Are you making an offer?” The mech set down his cube at his side. The energon was only barely touched, which was surprising. Orion had expected Ratchet to guzzle what he could. From the dimmed glow of his singular optic it was obvious he was starving. The mech's words suddenly made a connection in Orion's processor. He startled, optics wide.

“A-an offer?” Orion's voice spit static. He'd known that many mechs on the streets would do anything for credits, whether that was to fight to the death in the gladiatorial rings as Megatronus did, steal or sell their frames for another's pleasure. Orion wished to help this mech where he could but he was unwilling to buy another's frame.

Ratchet seemed to pick up on the archivist's distress. “I wouldn't mind a shower,” He clarified. Orion laughed nervously to himself, a breathy sort of chuckle that died off in a cough. Ratchet eyed him. “Relax, kid. You're good looking but I'm to tired to even think about 'facing.” The archivist opened his mouth to protest but quickly shut it again at the look he was given. 

After a moment he composed himself again. “I do not live in Kaon, but I'm sure the friend I am staying with will welcome you for a night.” Ratchet's optic brightened.

“You do know what I am, right, kid?” He tapped the side of his faceless helm with a claw. “Not exactly welcomed by most.”

Orion smiled broadly. “Megatronus is not most.”

–

“You do know what he is, don't you, Orion?” Megatronus pulled the young archivist aside by one broad shoulder. His red optics flickered between concern and anger.

“He is a mech who had fallen upon difficult circumstances.” Orion's voice, though at a whisper was stern, leaving no room for protest. Megatronus did so anyway.

“I have told you before that those on the streets can be dangerous to a forth-tier mech like yourself. They aren't to be spoken with, and yet you bring home an empurat?” His voice dipped at the last word, as if it's utterance could bring the council's wrath upon him.

Orion shook his helm disapprovingly. “Are you not the one that taught me that a mech's class should not define his character?” Ratchet shuffled nervously at the apartment door, oblivious to the conversation of the other two mechs, though he knew they were deciding his fate for the night cycle.

“It- he is not-” Megatronus drew in a long draught of cool air, running a clawed hand over his faceplates. “Orion, empurat's are not regular mechs. He was not sparked into that frame. He has done something to warrant that level of punishment.”

Orion's optics dimmed as he stared distantly at the floor. Megatronus patiently waited while the young archivist gathered his thoughts. Orion was never one to speak rashly, especially when he knew his emotions were clouding his thoughts. “He'll deactivate out there, Megatronus,” Orion mumbled. 

Megatronus clasped a large hand about Orion's forearm. “And so will twenty more by the end of the night. Twenty who have done nothing wrong. Do you expect me to take in all of them?” Orion shrugged his grip off, face falling further.

“Please do not make me turn him away.” The archivist avoided his friend's gaze as he was studied. He'd been visiting Megatronus in Kaon since he contacted him nearly two vorns prior. He'd made hundreds of trips through Kaon's slums and still he'd never come to terms with the suffering he found there.

Megatronus closed his optics and gathered his tempter. He could not blame Orion for his naivety when it was normally a quality he found endearing. “Fine,” he growled. “Fine, Orion. He stays.” Orion beamed but Megatronus cut him off before he could begin to say his thanks. “But he is your responsibility. He can stay here for now but when you leave so does he. I don't care what you do with him after that but he will not be remaining here. Understood?” Orion nodded, giving a small bow.

“I would not burden you in that way, my friend.” With a bright smile he started back to the empurat. Ratchet managed to look hopeful at the young mech's smile. 

“And get him cleaned up,” Megatronus called. “He reeks.”

–

“If you don't mind me asking, what did you do?” 

Ratchet paused, scrub brush stilling on his thigh. Orion continued his steady strokes on Ratchet's back, waiting patiently for an answer. The empurat resumed scrubbing the grease from his legs. “You're quite the blunt one, aren't you?”

The Iaconian did not flinch at the remark. “I am simply attempting to understand. I have heard that most empurats have committed murder, though I am doubtful.”

Ratchet quietly examined his right thigh before moving on to his left. His stark white paint was finally starting to reappear underneath the grime. “That's utter slag. I'm not sure any are murderers.”

“Then what did you do?” Orion's tone was genuinely curious. The lack of malice or fear surprised Ratchet.

“I am – was – a medic,” the empurat said simply. “I saved bots. Just not the bots the senate wanted me to.”

Here, Orion paused, though only for a moment before picking up a smaller brush to work into Ratchet's transformation seams. “I am not sure I believe the senate would preform an empurata for saving someone, even one of a lower class. We do not have a population problem, after all.”

Ratchet somehow managed to snort without any mouth. “Population problem or not, and we do have one, by the way, the senate does not care for mechs who don't fit into their idea of an ideal society.”

“Megatronus is well respected as a gladiator,” Orion protested, this time stopping cleaning outright. “Several senators regularly attend his matches. Why would they fund someone they care nothing for?” 

Ratchet shook his helm, rubbing almost viciously at a bit of dirt that refused to be dislodged from a seam. Orion handed him a clean towel when he was done. “The upper class breeds and raises turbo-foxes don't they? They don't see them as anything more than entertainment though, anything more than animals. You think it's any different for mechs? Any different for Megatronus? Have you ever asked him how the senator's talk to him when they award him their praise? He's entertainment. They'll keep him around until he becomes useless or a problem and then he'll end up like me or vanished.” 

Orion fell silent. Despite many of Megatronus' teachings, Orion wished to believe the mechs above him were as fair as they proclaimed to be. That optimism was dwindling with every visit to the Kaonian underworld. 

“Whatever, kid,” Ratchet snorted, handing the towel back to Orion once he was dry. “Thanks,” He grumbled after a momentary awkward staring contest, “for the wash.”

Orion smiled in return, and gestured out of the washracks back towards the main living area. Ratchet followed silently, arms held tightly at his sides. Megatronus' apartment was in no way large but nor was it cramped. In fact, it was fairly luxurious for one of his status, with an oil pool for after matches and two separate rooms. The entry room held a couch and large chair along with a sparsely stocked bookshelf filled with what datapads the gladiator had been able to collect over the vorns.

Orion opened the door to the spare room, checking that it was decently clean from his last visit. “You may recharge in here, Ratchet.”

The empurata victim did not budge towards the berth, despite his apparent exhaustion. Instead he crossed his arms over his chassis and rather bluntly asked “are you and Megatronus involved?”

Orion blinked. “Well... no, but I don't know that's-”

“So you're not recharging with him?” Ratchet cut him off.

The archivist's optics narrowed. “No. We are acquaintances, nothing more.” Ratchet turned and began back towards the sitting area.

“Then I'll sleep on the couch.” He landed heavily on the foam cushions, sliding down to lay on his side. “I won't take your berth from you.” The former medic curled into the couch, facing the backrest. With a sigh he curled his claws under his monocular helm and flicked off his optic.

Orion shook his helm but did not argue. This was one fight he had little interest in. If the other was more comfortable on the couch then he was willing to let him be. “Recharge well, Ratchet,” he mumbled before turning and closing the door to the guest room. The archivist did not miss the other's grumble of “good night” in return. 

–

Ratchet awoke to the scared silver face of Megatronus. The gladiator grumbled unintelligibly and shoved a cube of energon into the empurat's claws. He made sure the other had a strong grip on the fuel before letting go and stalking off towards the washracks. A moment later a far too cheery looking Orion settled himself into the arm chair across from the medic. Orion sipped from his own cube of energon and smiled at Ratchet. The medic noted that his cube already had a straw bobbing in it and cautiously took a sip. It was warmed and slightly sweetened. 

“Megatronus is not fond of mornings,” Orion said affectionately. 

“You seem to be, though,” Ratchet pointed out. He glanced about the room, taking in the unusual aesthetics. Both decorative and battle worn weaponry hung from the walls along side scrolls and paintings. Several trophies sat proudly on the bookshelf, proclaiming the gladiator's prowess in the ring to any visitor. A desk pushed off to the side was littered with several blades and armor pieces waiting to be polished.

Orion hummed once Ratchet's attention had refocused. “Megatronus has a match later today. I get free admittance if you wish to come watch.”

Ratchet nodded an agreement. He couldn't very well spent the day alone in Megatronou's apartment and he had little desire to return to the streets just yet. “What is an Iaconian mech like you doing in Kaon following gladiators around?”

Orion attempted to use his energon to hide the blush that crept over his face. “Megatronus is also an advocate for the dissolution of functionalism. He's written several documents on it. That is how I found him. We met over the data-net and he suggested I come see Kaonian life for myself. I'm working on a dissertation on the increasing class gap and it's relation to functionalist ideals. He's helped a great deal.”

Ratchet pondered this a moment. “Why?” He ventured.

“Why?” Orion repeated, unsure of Ratchet's meaning. “Why is he helping me?”

“No,” Ratchet shook his helm, accidentally knocking the straw from his drink. It took him several tries to pick it up off the floor. “Why is a forth-tier data-clerk interested in the opinions of a seventh-tier gladiator turned inspirational speaker? Why do you care about the class gap, or what happens to the functionalists' leftovers?”

Orion appeared taken aback before settling himself. “Everyone deserves a chance at life, at prosperity.” The young mech stared into his energon. “I should not be afforded a greater right to life because of my form or my job.”

Ratchet stared, single optic glancing up and down Orion's frame. The archivist had the distinct feeling that he was being tested in some way. The medic was gauging how well he could trust his word. Eventually, he simply grunted, clearly uncomfortable. 

“Isn't this place a little expensive for a gladiator?” Ratchet returned to sipping on his energon. Just as he had last night, Orion noticed he drank it extremely slowly. 

Orion smiled, graciously accepting the change in topic. “He does very well in vidor.”

“Vidor?” Ratchet tilted his helm slightly. He could not show emotions through facial expressions, but it seemed he's found another method. “I was unaware gladiators got to keep that much of their gifts.”

Orion nodded. “The Lanista takes a 70% cut. But Megatronus has many fans and several wealthy sponsors, including senator Shockwave. The remaining amount is enough for him to live well, as long as he's wise about his spending. I've cosigned a credit account for him; it's helped.”

Ratchet placed his energon to the side, the cube only half empty. “You put a lot of trust in him.”

Megatronus chose that moment to reenter the room, still dripping wet and a towel hung about his shoulders. He glanced briefly at Ratchet's half empty cube and moved to sit next to Orion. The archivist swatted at his side when he sat on the arm rest. “You're dripping solvent everywhere, Megatronus. The seat will be drenched.”

The gladiator snorted. “My apologies great archivist, but this chair is mine and if I wish to soak it, then I will.” He ran his towel down his chassis, wiping the solvent off in quick, flicking strokes. 

Orion raised a hand to block against the drops of solvent the gladiator flung at his companion. “Oh! Megatronus!”

Ratchet's optic narrowed in what Orion guessed was a smirk. “Just acquaintances, huh?”

Megatronus glanced between his two guests before leveling Orion with a hurt look. “Is that what you told him?”

“I- I- he-,” Orion stuttered, “He was asking if we were sleeping together.”

Megatronus bellowed out a laugh, head tilted back and arms wrapped about his middle. He flashed a mischievous grin at Ratchet. “Come, Orion,” he said, standing. “I have training to attend, and I wish to speak with you.” Ratchet made to stand but Megatronus motioned him to stay put. “I'll be locking the doors, Ratchet, but feel free to make use of my datapads if you wish. The oil pool won't fill without my Lanista's pass-code but you may use the washracks.”

Ratchet gave a short nod and settled back into the couch. 

–

“He is odd, Megatronus,” Orion hung about the gladiator's side as he selected his practice sword for the day's sparking match. “I am unsure what to make of him.”

Megatronus pushed Orion out of the way of the sword rack before answering with a huff. “I don't know what you expect me to tell you, Orion. You brought home an empurat, of course he's going to be a little odd.”

The archivist found a bench out of the way while his companion took practice swings with the dull sword he'd selected. “That is the problem. I expected an odd mech, perhaps even a potentially violent or angry one, but he's not.” The mech huffed, swinging his pedes in the metal shavings covered floor. “He is fairly grumpy but not temperamental, and I don't think he could hurt anyone even if he wanted to. I think mostly his mood is because he's resentful of what the council has done to him.”

Megatronus paused in his motions. “What the council's done? Orion, empuratas are not preformed simply for the fun of it. The punishment may be harsh but it's for a reason.”

Orion frowned. “You have never held high faith in the council. Why not believe this mech when he says he's done nothing wrong?”

“Because an empurata is expensive. If the council is anything, it's greedy. Far too much so to preform expensive and controversial procedures for petty crimes, much less on a whim.” Megatronus explained, returning to his weapons practice.

“I never said that they mutilated him for the fun of it. He claims to have gotten on the council's bad side by aiding lower class mechs.” Megatronus allowed his sword tip to pierce the ground so he could lean heavily on the hilt, and gave Orion an incredulous look.

“Even I find that difficult to believe,” he deadpanned.

Orion crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at the ground. “You mistrust the council at every turn. Why are you so unwilling to believe they could have wronged this mech?” He turned his gaze back to his companion, expression softening. “He has medic's markings, Megatronus. Under all that grime, he bares crosses. I'm willing to bet he's fully coded as well.”

Megatronus sighed long and low, pushing his fingers under his helm to rub at his forehead. “Do you remember Senator Halogen?”

Orion nodded. “He's High Councilor now.”

“Yes, well, he was Senator when he was giving me vidor.” The gladiator abandoned his perch against his sword to sit on the bench beside his companion. “Just after he began funding me, he was caught skimming off the senatorial funds. Almost all of them do it, I'm sure, but they had to investigate anyway. They found he had several berth slaves as well as ties to a private gladiatorial ring stocked with gutters mechs and pleasure bots, not free gladiators like myself. His trial lasted three months and the decision to preform empurata was not made lightly.”

Orion stared at the gladiator, brow furrowing. “How can you compare the treatment given to a senator to what a fourth-tier mech is provided. The disappearance of a single medic would hardly cause a stir, if even garnering a news story.”

Megatronus returned the look. “I'm sure you've heard of Senator Ratchet?”

Orion flicked a hand absently. “It's a common name.”

Megatronus shook his helm. Orion was far too stubborn when he wanted to be. “Senator Ratchet went missing two months ago.”

The archivist opened his mouth, only to close it again a moment later. He stared down at his pedes, focusing on the metal dusting on the plating. “I'll speak with him.”

Megatronus placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know you want to help, but not everyone is worthy of your pity, or capable of redemption.” Orion nodded faintly, sighing through his vents.

“Megs.” One of the senior gladiators poked his helm into the armory. “You're up.”

Megatronus waved the gladiator off and stood. He pulled his sword from the ground and turned to face Orion. “Go back to my quarters. Draw another cube from my allowance for our guest, his optics are still too dim for my tastes. I'll see you after tonight's match.” He hefted his sword over his shoulder. “And Orion, be careful.”

–

The whoosh of the front door startled the rooms only occupant, causing the medic to drop the datapad he only had a delicate grip on in the first place. The pad clattered to the floor noisily with an accompanying mumbled curse. Orion, who was edging through the door with several shopping bags hung on his arms, didn't seem to notice. 

"Sorry that took so long," he said, placing the bags down on the small amount of counter space next to the energon dispenser. "I thought I'd pick up some things while Megatronus is out. He's awful about keeping basic supplies in his quarters and honestly can't afford a lot of it. Saves all of his credits for new datapads." By the time he'd finished unloading his arms Ratchet had managed to wedge a claw under the datapad he'd been reading to pull it up off the floor. Orion sat himself in his usual arm chair across from the medic.

"What were you reading?" Orion asked, genuinely curious.

Ratchet made an unsure noise, tapping the top of the pad to call up the title. "Class Erasure: Free Speech and Functionalism," he read. "This is one of Megatronus' works?"

Orion hummed a positive. "One of his early works. He was writing it when I met him." Orion smiled, a small laugh escaping his lips. "I'm not sure he'd agree with everything he wrote back then but he's certainly less embarrassed by it then some of his old poetry. He's hidden those pads, I think."

Ratchet's optic brightened. "He writes poetry?"

"Wrote," Orion said, sounding forlorn. "He hasn't in years. Too busy with politics and bloodshed."

Ratchet nodded, placing the pad aside. "Some of this is reaching the third tier. I remember reading about a gladiator that was getting into politics where he shouldn't. The council wasn't terribly pleased."

The archivist laughed, "Megatronus will appreciate that." Orion held out a small box of jelled energon. "Lead dusted jells?"

Ratchet held up a hand, politely refusing the offer. "I'm not much for sweets." Orion took a jell cube for himself before setting the box aside. "Where did you get those anyway? I wasn't aware that Kaon sold that type of thing."

Orion shook his helm and held up a finger while he chewed his treat, not wanting to speak with a full mouth. When the jell was dissolved and swallowed he said, "Not for a reasonable price. I bring these from Iacon with me every time I visit. Megatronus favors sweets a great deal." Orion smiled all too brightly. "You don't like sweets?"

Ratchet hummed. "I prefer bitter additives, really. Though I have quite a taste for mercury." Orion's face scrunched up in disgust. Ratchet laughed, short and sharp. "Not a fan?"

"It's... um, it's good. I just hate the texture." Orion licked his lips as if imagining the additive’s unique texture.

Ratchet nodded in understanding. "It is rather... goopy?"

Orion's lip turned up again. "It just balls up funny in your mouth. Leaves a coating too."

The medic's optic pinched at one side, as if in a lopsided grin. "I kind of like that, actually."

Orion just shook his helm in disbelief. "Found one thing we won't agree on," he mumbled. A small snort wormed it's way out of Ratchet's throat at that, optic tilted up into a smile.

"This is good," he mumbled. Orion tilted his helm inquisitively, silently urging Ratchet to go on. "I haven't had a conversation beyond asking for energon in a while." 

Orion's mouth pressed into a thin line at the thought. "I've been meaning to ask," he said carefully. "How did you end up in Kaon? You obviously aren't from here."

Ratchet shrugged but didn't provide an answer beyond that. Orion, hesitant to push the topic, just nodded, grabbing himself another energon jell. The medic clicked his claws together, his expression verging on intrigue more than the disgust he'd given the appendages each time he'd seen them so far. "Amazing how fast the tips wore down," he observed. "Were sharp as frag the first few days."

"You seem to be handling them well." Orion observed, watching Ratchet pick up the datapad next to him in only a few tries.

The empurat shrugged. "Should have seen me with hands."

"Hopefully you'll get them back." Orion leaned forward, elbows rested on his thighs. The look of doubt Ratchet gave him was disheartening.

"You can't just build medic's hands, kid." Ratchet shook his helm, leaning back in his seat. The couch was almost too big for him, intended for Megatronus as it was. The medic ended up in an awkward sprawl across the back cushion. It didn't look comfortable but he stayed there, either out of embarrassment or stubbornness. "Rebuilds are possible, but expensive. Lots of equipment needs to go into the wrists and fingers. They need their own subspace pockets to accommodate all of the tools. Extra sensory grids, too. Too much micro scale work for the average engineer or medic. I can't afford them. Even if my accounts weren't frozen."

Orion hummed, doing his best to be understanding and considerate. No matter who Ratchet had been before the empurata - senator, medic or criminal - this change was bound to be hard on him. He was handling the situation with almost too much grace, Orion thought. 

"You're an archivist, right?" Ratchet asked, fishing for a change in subject. "Iaconian archives? Upper branch, or the public sector?"

The archivist smiled. "Mostly the public branch. I don't have the clearance to deal with a lot of what is stored in the upper branch."

"Must see a lot of interesting things in there," Ratchet mussed. He was back to fiddling with the datapad, twisting it this way and that while trying to retain his grip on it.

Orion watched him with some fascination. While he was obviously still getting used to his claws, the medic was already better at maneuvering them than he was when Orion found him. "Not really," he answered. "I'm a historical archivist. Current issues, fiction, that sort of thing, isn't part of my sector. Anyway, archivists archive. We don't do any analysis or writing ourselves."

"And yet you're writing a dissertation?" Ratchet's optic quirked up at one side.

Orion smiled sheepishly. "I'm not really supposed to," he admitted. "I'm applying for a permit to study under a cultural sociologist but I'm not technically allowed to do any independent work until the permit goes through. It should in the next few weeks, if my application is accepted, and Megatronus said he'd publish my work under a pen name if it didn't."

"Impatient, huh?" Ratchet teased, that hint of a smile back in his optic.

"There's a lot happening right now," Orion said, feeling as if he had to defend his decision. "There are a lot of mechs that are being wronged by systems put in place to help society and I'm in a good position to discuss that. There's been talk that the council is intending to push a few laws that would revoke our ability to talk about these kind of issues. Waiting doesn't seem like the appropriate choice right now."

"I can confirm those rumors," Ratchet blurted. "The data-net is going to be a lot more secure, and censored, come next high council session."

"You can confirm?" Orion asked.

Ratchet suddenly looked more flustered than he had a moment ago, as if he'd said the wrong thing. "Upper third-tier medic," he explained with a wave of his hand, "A lot of patients, and a few friends, are in the senate. Most are Citizen's Senators, a few are in the High Council though."

Orion tilted his helm suspiciously but let it slide. If Ratchet was a senator as Megatronus suspected then he had obvious reason to hide his involvement with the mechs that mutilated him, especially to someone so outwardly against a lot of what the council stood for. "Then I shouldn't wait to publish, I suppose," Orion said after a moment's thought.

Ratchet nodded slowly. "Be careful, kid. You don't want to end up looking like me."

The door to the apartment slid open, startling both occupants. Ratchet yet again dropped the datapad he'd been fiddling with, and Orion ended up only half in his seat, having jumped forward some. Megatronus gave them both a side long look before closing the door behind himself.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" The gladiator rounded the couch, in one swift move plucking a energon jell from where Orion had set them on the side table and the datapad Ratchet had dropped from the floor. He flicked it on, chewing slowly on the edge of a treat. He snorted when he saw the title. "This one is old and poorly written," He said, putting the pad away and pulling another from the bookshelf. "At least read something up to date." The imposing silver mech held out the new datapad to Ratchet, waiting patiently while the other got a firm grip of it. The empurat glanced at the title, "The Single Tier System: A Step Towards Peace", before putting the pad aside.

"You make a lot of good observations in your work," Ratchet commented. "Have some decent ideas too. It's obvious that you've looked into quite a few other species' political systems. Your incorporation of the Kolar Worker's Clause is rather brilliant."

Megatronus beamed, looking almost as proud as he did after a winning blow in the gladiatorial rings. "The Kolarian system has been a proven success for hundreds of vorns. Orion introduced me to their history actually. He's been helping me find documentation my class is normally bared access to."

"It shows." Ratchet nodded. "One point that confused me, however. You seem to be writing to the upper classes, perhaps even the council itself? The language you use isn't very common in the lower classes. It speaks of a high education."

"I believe I'll be better received if I speak to an education equal to that of my audience, don't you think?" Megatronus sat on the arm of Orion's chair, leaning an arm on the archivist's shoulder. "That is often the criticism the nobles have for the lower class, isn't it? That we are uneducated."

"But why is your audience the council?" Ratchet pushed. "The council isn't going to budge on this sort of thing. It seems foolish to write to them."

"What, then, would you suggest, Empurat?" Megatronus frowned. 

"I can't be the first to criticize your work; don't get angry with me." Ratchet folded his arms over his chest, sitting up taller. "The high council isn't going to change their laws without there being a desperate need for it. A few pretty essays from one gladiator aren't going to do the trick. A lot of low class workers reading those essays might be a better starting point."

Megatronus scoffed. "The lower class isn't going to understand Kolarian Politics."

"You learned," Orion spoke up. "Perhaps you should start small. Talk about Cybertronian politics before interstellar ones?"

Megatronus' frown deepened. "I'll consider it." He stood, towering over both seated mechs. "Now, I came in here to drop off your tickets for tonight’s match." He turned to leave, setting the aforementioned passes on the side table next to the energon jells. "I shall see you after the match, Orion,” he said, snagging a jell on his way out.

–

Orion led his companion through the network of tunnel that made up the gladiatorial sub-city, glancing back every few steps to ensure Ratchet was still behind him. The halls were winding and overcrowded in anticipation for the night's events. Large gladiators shoved passed the smaller guests. Disposables ducked through the tightly packed crowds, dodging pedes and weapons that hung from the gladiators' belts. Used to the busy environment that an upcoming match brought, Orion easily wove between mechs. Ratchet, however, was jostled about a good deal. Several mechs snarled at him as they passed, while others went as far as to purposefully knock against his shoulder.

With some effort, Ratchet fought his way forward to walk next to Orion. “Busy,” he mumbled, using Orion's arm to steady himself when another mech shoved past.

“There's a large match tonight,” The archivist explained. “We're almost through the public area. The private sectors will not be as crowded.” As he spoke he shepherded his companion into a secluded hall. Instantly, the crowd of mechs thinned to a mere few. Each wore the same badge Orion had grabbed for Ratchet and himself from Megatronus' quarters. Orion lead Ratchet down a side corridor to a hall that ran parallel to the arena. A single guard stood at the end of the hall, in front of a set of stairs. 

“Tickets,” he grumbled as the two mechs approached, holding his hand out.

Orion held up his badge for the mech to see. “We're guests of Megatronus.” The guard nodded and stepped aside for them to pass. He grabbed Ratchet's arm when he made to follow Orion.

“Cause any trouble and I won't hesitate to have you thrown out, understood?” the guard's brow furrowed when Ratchet only gave a silent nod but let the empurat's arm go. Ratchet jogged up the stairs to catch up to an oblivious Orion.

The stairs opened into chaos. Hundreds of mechs filled the bleachers, shouting and hollering, waving about cubes of energon and rough housing with one and other. The seats Orion lead Ratchet to were pushed against the railing of the gladiatorial pits, as close to the battleground as one could get without being a part of the show. The seating was nothing more than a thick metal bench, already covered in drops of spilled highgrade. 

Orion brushed off his seat before settling, while Ratchet simple sat heavily next to him, ignoring the grime. “Have you ever been to a match?” Orion shouted over the noise. 

Ratchet's single optic flickered as he glanced about. “No. I'm not much a fan of bloodsport.”

“Today's not a death match,” Orion assured, “There will be several amateur matches, an arts performance and then the professional matches. Megatronus is always one of the last to fight.”

Ratchet grunted as he was jostled by a passing mech. “Not even the professional matches are to the death? How is a winner judged then?”

Orion shook his helm. “The amateur matches are to first blood. Professional matches go until one party yields or only one is left standing. Professional gladiators rarely fight to the death. The ludus invests too much in them to lose them so easily.”

“And Megatronus is a professional?” Ratchet flinched when a drop of spilled highgrade caught him in the helm. 

Orion grinned broadly. “One of the best.”

A sharp whistle signaled the start of the amateur matches. Two mechs stepped out onto the field, striding to the center of the large arena. The larger of the two gladiators, a tank, wore a flamboyant shade of deep red, something not common with lower class mechs as it was difficult to maintain. Equally bright yellow highlights rimmed the edges of his armor and transformation seams. He had no biolights, but mimicked them with iridescent silver paint. In one of his sturdy hands was a short sword, a shield in the other.

His opponent was significantly smaller, most likely a speedster of some sort. He was painted drably in protoform gray and mat-black. His strides were long and confident, sword and shield swinging at his sides. They clattered against his platting as he and his larger opponent bowed for the audience.

The crowd erupted into cheer and whistles as weapons were raised and the two gladiators charged each other. The largest mech struck first, sword clanging against the other's shield. The speedster used the tilt of his shield to slide the sword off and dart between the other's legs. He struck upwards with his sword, nicking the mech's calf but not drawing energon. With no fluid drawn, the match continued.

The speedster spun about, pedes sliding over the metal shavings, just in time to leap backwards, his opponent’s sword clanging into the ground where he had been moments before. He took the opportunity to dance back, putting distance between the two of them. 

Ratchet nudged at Orion's arm. “These amateur’s, they're gutter's mechs, aren't they?” The tank lumbered forward, surprisingly fast for his size. He could not match his opponent’s speed, however.

Orion nodded, glancing away from the fight. “Most are. Several are miners and some live at the ludus, training to be professionals. A few of those are slaves but most sold themselves to get out of debt.” The gray gladiator stabbed forward from behind his shield when his opponent charged. His sword struck another glancing blow, scrapping paint.

“They're in surprisingly good condition.” Ratchet leaned forward, single optic narrowing as he zoomed in on the fight. The tank swung his shield into his opponent, using the edge to crumple the plating in his side. The speedster dropped his sword, stumbling. A line was torn by the jagged platting. Energon splattered the sand. The crowd burst into a deafening roar.

Ratchet lock his balance at the edge of his seat when the mech behind him leapt to his pedes, knocking against him. He slammed into the railing, chin catching the guard rail. Static burst in his vision, claws coming up to grip the railing. Faintly he could hear the crowd ringing in his audios, but the end of the match, the speedster bowing to his opponent while the tank helped him off the field, was lost to him. 

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from the static. The touch turned aggressive quickly, pulling him backwards. “Did you not hear me, Emp? Get the frag off the railing.” The security guard's grip on his shoulder tightened, denting the metal. “Let's go mech, get up.” He pulled a still dazed Ratchet to his pedes.

“Sir,” Orion stood, grabbing gently onto Ratchet's other shoulder. “Has he done something wrong?”

“He's disturbing the match.” The guard tugged on the empurat's shoulder again as the medic's optic refocused.

Orion didn't release his grip. “I didn't see him doing anything, sir,” he stated, voice level and calm. Two new gladiators strode out onto the battle field.

The guard's frown deepened. “He was climbing over the railing.”

Orion's brow furrowed. “He hit his helm.”

“Sir, I can kick you out too, if you'd like?”

Ratchet glanced between his companion and the guard, optic brightening. “Sit down, Kid. I'll just go back to Megatronus' quarters.”

Orion sighed and slid past the guard, heading for the exit. The guard rolled his optics and shoved Ratchet in the same direction. 

The two went quietly back to Megatronus' quarters, Orion only just keeping pace with Ratchet. The medic's shoulders were held in a tight hunch, claws clicking occasionally from their awkward position stiff by his side. It was difficult to tell if he was upset or angry; perhaps a mix of both, Orion figured. When Megatronus' door did not immediately open for him, Ratchet's anger seemed to build further. Orion slid past him to enter the door code, careful not to brush the other. 

Ratchet stalked past, quickly finding a seat on the couch, back to the archivist. Orion rounded the couch, gently falling into the armchair he preferred. Ratchet didn't look up, instead staring at his claws resting in his lap. Orion watched him for a moment before speaking.

“I'm sorry.” He hopped his voice came across as genuine. “I've never seen a guard that touchy.”

“Never been with an emp,” Ratchet snarled. His optic remained a dull blue, staring down at his lap. 

Orion sat across from Ratchet, watching silently as the other swung between anger and grief. Ratchet's claws clicked on his legs, helm turned down and frame noticeably shaking. His vents wheezed short, frustrated gusts and his fans clicked on to a near silent setting. Moments passed and he did not move.

"What would help?" Orion asked, breaking the silence.

Ratchet hunched further in on himself. "I want my hands back." Orion sat silently, suddenly feeling helpless and awkward, as Ratchet shook and curled in on himself. "I want my hands and my head and my life back." The medic's vents clicked and stuttered into a whisper, "they mutilated me." A near silent scream squirmed it's way from Ratchet's vocalizer, a squealing, ugly sound. Orion stood from his seat, kneeling in front of the trembling empurat and placing a hand on his knee. Ratchet glanced up from were he'd buried his helm in his arms.

"I wish I could help," he mumbled, feeling obligated to say something now that the medic's attention was on him. Ratchet's optic narrowed before he returned his helm to his arms, shaking and frantically attempting to control his clicking vocoder. It was obvious the medic did not breakdown often and desperately needed the release. Orion let him cry until his venting quieted into hiccuping gasps. His shoulders were held tight but his back had relaxed some. Orion gently reached up to tilt the medic's helm up slightly. Ratchet let him. 

"Does it hurt?" Orion asked, running a finger over the small dent in Ratchet's helm where he'd hit the stadium hand rail.

Ratchet shook his helm. "Not really. Just a bit of an ache. I'm alright."

"Megatronus isn't allowed to keep any medical drives in his quarters but I can get one from the arena medic. He's only a few doors down."

Ratchet hummed a negative. "Maybe just some warm energon?"

Orion smiled, standing. "Of course." He filled a glass for both himself and the medic from the dispenser, placing them on the warming plate. "Any additives?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Mercury?" Ratchet called back, voice already sounding more stable, if not a tad embarrassed. 

A sprinkle of mercury in one cube, copper in the other, and Orion returned to the couch. Ratchet gratefully accepted the fuel, sipping carefully from the straw. "I should leave," he abruptly said after a long moment of silence.

Orion set his glass on the side table. "I won't keep you, but may I ask why?"

Ratchet glanced down at his lap, watching the light play across the mercury topping his energon. "I need to move on. Find work, a place to stay. You've helped me get back on my pedes, but I can't take advantage of that generosity forever."

Orion nodded slowly, unsure how honest the answer.

"What do you intend to do?" Orion asked. "For work, I mean."

Ratchet shrugged. "See if someone will take me on as a janitor, the brothels are always accepting if it comes to that." He sighed, obviously not pleased with the idea. "If I'm lucky someone will take me on as a medic. Hopefully my appearance and lack of proper hands can be outweighed by my skill."

"Come to Iacon with me," Orion blurted before he could stop himself. "There's a mod-shop that's been looking for another surgeon for orns."

Ratchet's optic narrowed. "I don't have credits, Kid. I doubt I can get into my accounts to withdraw anything. I don't have a place to stay. If that mod shop doesn't hire me I doubt anywhere in Iacon will."

Orion held up a hand, stopping Ratchet. "You're welcome to stay with me as long as you need to. And I'll pay for the train back, it's not very expensive."

The concerned frown was evident in Ratchet's voice where his face could not convey it. "I don't want to impose."

The archivist shook his head. "I enjoy your company, and my apartment is often lonely."

Ratchet skimmed a claw through the mercury floating atop his energon, sucking the sweet additive off. "I'll think about it," he relented.

"I leave tomorrow. I can give you until then." Orion informed. Ratchet nodded but remained silent. Orion said after a moment, "What about where you lived before all this. You can't go back there?"

The medic shook his helm. "Logged into the data-net to check the state of my lease when I first found myself in Kaon. It's been terminated. Besides, I don't have access to the funds to afford it anymore."

Orion hummed in understanding. He's suspected as much. The archivist wrung his hands, not meeting Ratchet's single optic. "Ratchet? Are you Health Minister Ratchet?"

The medic's gaze whipped up to Orion's, optic bright. "Where did you hear that?" His tone was sharp, but lacked any real heat.

"Megatronus mentioned that the Health Minister of Iacon went missing three weeks ago. He speculated, but I wanted to ask you first without making any assumptions."

Ratchet's optic flickered. "Yes," he said after a thoughtful pause. "My full title is Senator Ratchet of Protihex. Though I'm sure they've already called for a termination of my term."

"Okay." Orion stood, collecting both his empty glass and Ratchet's half finished one.

"Okay?" Ratchet balked, "That's it?"

Orion nodded, back turned as he cleaned off the glassware. "Yes. You don't need to explain yourself to me."

Ratchet stood, moving to lean on the wall next to Orion. "You don't want to know what I've done to deserve this? Why I'm mutilated?"

The archivist's brows furrowed. "You've already told me, haven't you?

Ratchet only seemed angrier at the blind trust. "And you still believe me?"

"Should I not?" Ratchet stomped a pede, huffing through his vents. Orion startled, setting the glasses down and turning to face his companion. Ratchet was shaking again.

"Why are you the only one to believe me. Three weeks on the streets, begging mechs to believe I'm not a murderer. And only some nieve archivist from Iacon believes me." Ratchet bowed his helm. His voice was harsh but barely a whisper. "Primus, I want to get star sabered."

Ratchet trembled as Orion wrapped his arms about his shoulders, pulling the stout mech against his frame. The medic froze, frame tensing, but did not pull away. "I'm sorry," Orion mumbled.

"It still hurts." Orion pulled Ratchet back to look at him questioningly. "My helm and my hands," Ratchet elaborated. "They still ache."

"Is that normal. I know there's some discomfort after surgeries, but I'm not medically trained."

"A few days of discomfort," Ratchet's voice crackled with static. "Three weeks means something's wrong. Probably some incorrectly connected wires, nothing dangerous, but I can't get in there to see for myself."

Orion hummed thoughtfully. "I'll make an appointment for you once we get back to Iacon."

Ratchet huffed halfheartedly, suddenly looking exhausted. "I haven't agreed to come with you."

"I know." Sensing the others exhaustion, Orion steered Ratchet towards the guest room. The medic put up little fight. He was exhausted from both his rage and grief. This pent up emotion had been building from weeks, from the moment he'd woken up in Kaon.

The berth was soft beneath him as he eased himself down onto the old padding. The metal creaked under his weight but held fast. Orion stood awkwardly in the door way.

"Are you sure you don't want me to get you a pain chit?" The archivist ran a hand over the door frame as he spoke.

"I'm alright," Ratchet assured, pulling the quilt at the end of the berth up over his broad legs. 

Orion nodded. "I'll see you in the morning, then." With a final nod of acknowledgment Orion gently shut the door. He sighed, hanging his helm. Ratchet, he believed, was honestly a good mech, but the level of bias, bigotry and outright discrimination Orion had seen towards the medic had him questioning their societal teachings more than anything Megatronus had ever shown him. Even the gladiator had initially rejected Ratchet, and still held doubts.

Orion glanced at his chronometer and frowned. Megatronus was due back by now, the professional matches rarely went beyond the scheduled time. The archivist finished cleaning up quickly, wrote a note for Ratchet in case he woke alone and locked Megatronus' quarters on his way out.

The trip to medibay was short and undisturbed. A few gladiators lingered in the halls, confirming that the match was over. Most didn't leave the arena until all fights were over unless they needed medical attention. Thus the medibay was the archivist's first stop in his search. His next would have been the weapon's room, where Megatronus often stayed to clean his equipment, had he not spotted the gladiator's silver form sitting on one of the far medibay berths. Energon still dripped down from a large gash in his shoulder that had yet to be tended to. The small red medic that ran the ludus medibay was bent over Megatronus' thigh, welding plating closed. The gladiator smiled broadly when he caught sight of Orion.

"How did you manage this?" The archivist asked, coming to stand next to his friend, well out of the medic's way.

Megatronus' smile dropped. "You didn't see?"

Orion sighed, sitting on the berth beside Megatronus. "The guards kicked Ratchet out. I didn't want him leaving alone."

Megatronus scratched absently at his lower back. His expression tightened. "What did he do?"

Orion huffed indignantly. "He didn't do anything. The guard was an aft."

Megatronus raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "Where is he now?"

"Back in your quarters," Orion explained. "He had a bit of a breakdown. He's exhausted." Orion sighed, helm hanging back as he leaned back on his hands. "I've never seen a mech treated this unfairly, Megatronus. You've showed me poverty and the gutters but even there if a mech has credits or fuel people do not turn them away." Orion wrung his hands, absently picking at the seams in his fingers. "They single him out before he even shows an ID."

Megatronus listened patiently while the medic began on his shoulder. "His disfigurement is ID enough."

Orion seemed to grow more frustrated. "But they don't even know him. They don't know if he's done anything wrong. I know you don't think well of him, Megatronus, but I honestly believe he's done nothing wrong."

The gladiator sighed. "I'm starting to believe you," he mumbled. Orion raised a hopeful optic to glance at his companion. "I believe I owe Ratchet an apology. I judged on both frame and class before I bothered to meet him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Suicide mention/discussion

Dawn came too quickly, and even though the light from the plant's distant sun could not penetrate the maze of halls that made up the ludus' inner-workings, the bustle of gladiators in the halls was enough to pull Ratchet from his recharge. The white mech pulled his claws free of the mesh blankets smothering him. The mesh tangled into his hands, catching on the sharp points. After a moment of struggle he simple wrenched his hands free, using his knee to push the blankets off.

“Morning.” Ratchet startled, not having heard the berthroom door open. Orion smiled apologetically. He held out a cube of energon to the other, a straw already bobbing in the liquid. Ratchet accepted it gratefully, taking a small sip before speaking.

“How early did you get up?” He moved over to allow the archivist room to sit on the berth next to him.

Orion watched Ratchet swirl his breakfast around as he spoke. “Megatronus had to leave for sparing a hour ago. I wanted to see him off before I had to leave for Iacon.” 

Ratchet felt a wash of guilt. “I apologize for occupying all of your time last night. I imagine you don't get to spend much time in Kaon.”

Orion waved him off. “I visit roughly once a month, and we speak regularly over the datanet. I enjoyed spending time with you.” He paused awkwardly, glancing down at his pedes. “How are you feeling today?”

Ratchet hummed around his straw, taking another small sip. “Fine,” he replied. “I told you last night that I'm not hurt.”

Orion smiled brightly. “I'm glad. But are you feeling any better than last night?”

“Ah,” Ratchet breathed, placing the half finished cube on the nightstand. “Better. Thank you.”

Orion eyed the cube with a concerned frown but let it slide for the moment. “I hate to pressure you but I leave in less than a hour.” He let the question hang unsaid.

“I'll come,” Ratchet said after a moment of consideration. “There's nothing but the gutters for me here. Besides, I've got an old friend in Iacon who might be willing to let me sleep at his place.”

A small smile slid across Orion's features. “Good. There's room for you in my home if your friend does not have space.” The archivist stood, stretching his joints until they popped. “I'm going to wash off, then we should be going. It's a half hour walk to the station, then a five hour train ride. Make sure you're fueled.” He glanced pointedly to Ratchet's barely touched fuel then shut the door behind himself, providing the other some measure of privacy.

After a moment to assure that Orion would not return, Ratchet flopped back on the berth, letting his back fall hard into the sheets while his bulky pedes hung over the edge. Hot air gusted from his vents in a forceful sigh. He raised a claw up to his face, examining the smooth, new metal. The point on the sharp tip was already worn away after nearly three weeks of use, but the metal was generally free of the pits and dents that came with age. The rest of the medic's armor was uneven and lightly pitted. It had been nearly a vorn since he'd had the damage of everyday filled in. By contrast, the smooth shine of his helm and hands stood out terribly. His arms dropped down, covering his single optic as the light blinked off. He wished he could scream, could express his rage and sorrow and pain in some more carnal way, but that would draw Orion's attention. The archivist meant well, but he was already worrying enough.

Instead Ratchet simply sunk into the mesh berth pad and allowed his anxieties to come to the forefront. He wasn't afraid of Iacon itself. The council could reach him as easily there as they could in Kaon if they truly had an interest in harming him further. Instead his anxiety sat with returning to his old life. There was no guarantee Iacon General would except him back. Without that income it was unlikely he could keep his clinic open. Ratchet wasn't even sure it had stayed open in the time he'd gone missing. Confronting his friends and colleges was going to present another challenge, one he wasn't sure he'd ever be prepared to face.

The medic's frame eased, the tension in his joints lessening as he forced himself to relax. There was nothing to be done about his concerns currently. He could only wait and see. Heaving himself up off the berth, Ratchet retrieved his abandoned cube of energon, forcing down another small sip before leaving the relative safety of his temporary berthroom.

The white noise of the shower drifted through the otherwise silent gladiator's quarters. Ratchet ran a claw over the smooth metal of the desk chair as he passed. The half polished armor on the desk had been shoved aside. A single datapad occupied the empty space, flashing an unopened message. Ratchet glanced down, attention caught by the blinking light. His name flashed back in the message title, printed in elegant handwriting.

“Megatronus left that for you.” Ratchet startled, whipping about to face Orion. The archivist was running a towel over his helm and shoulders. He smiled at Ratchet's reaction, a hint of guilt in his optics for startling the mech a second time that day. “Megatronus felt guilty about not being able to see you off, I think,” Orion explained, “He said to keep the datapad and not read it until you'd settled in Iacon.”

“Settled?” Ratchet reiterated even as he sub-spaced the pad. Orion simply shrugged and began collecting his possessions, a single bag of comforts that he stuffed into his subspace. He pulled a blaster Ratchet had not noticed him carrying prior from a cupboard, checked the charge and placed it in his quick access storage. 

“Were you always carrying that.” Ratchet asked, not the least bit weary of the archivist.

Orion shook his helm, leading they way out of Megatronus' quarters, locking the door behind Ratchet. “No. Megatronus insists that I carry it when on Kaon's streets. I don't carry it in the ludus, however.” Ratchet nodded, breathing deep the sooty air of the Kaonian slums as they emerged from underground.

The walk to the train station was taken in silence. Mechs sitting on the streets or working street corners sparred Orion only a glance but sneered and scoffed as Ratchet passed. The medic returned the hostile look only to a mech who seemed prepared to cause trouble with Orion, having already asked if the archivist wanted company for the night and having been turned down. The glossy buymech backed off at the sight of the bulky empurat. Orion provided Ratchet with a sad but grateful smile and continued on, evidently eager to get past the shadier sections of Kaon's streets. Ratchet was happy to oblige his quicker pace.

The transit station was more crowded than Ratchet had expected for such an impoverished section of Kaon. Most mechs ignored the two as they approached the ticket vendor, though several seemed weary, providing a wider breadth then they normally would have. The ticketmaster’s optics narrowed to slits when Orion approached.

“One single to Iacon East,” Orion held out a credit chit.

The vendor took the chit, swiping it over the scanner. “He purchasing his separately?” The mech jerked his chin at Ratchet.

“I purchased a round trip when I came here,” Orion explained, holding up his original ticket.

The mech behind the counter frowned. He pulled the ticket stub from the machine but did not immediately hand it over. “I'm going to need to see some ID.”

Orion frowned, brow furrowing. “I've never needed to provide ID before.”

The mech shook his helm. “I need his ID,” he pointed to Ratchet. “It's standard policy. You should have been asked before.”

Orion looked ready to protest but Ratchet patted him on the shoulder. He slid his wrist under the ticket window to expose his ID chip, praying silently that it had not been removed along with his hands. The ticket vendor silently scanned the mech's wrist with a small hand-held device. His optics narrowed at the screen before going wide. 

"Senator," he breathed, glancing up at Ratchet. With a jolt he placed the printed ticket and Orion's credit chit into the space between Ratchet's claws. "Have a good trip, sir."

Ratchet fumbled for the ticket until Orion stepped forward to take it for him. The medic nodded gratefully, turning towards the transit station. "Aft," he muttered under his breath once they were out of hearing range. Orion chuckled, the comment surprising him. 

"I apologize for that," the archivist said once they'd found seats on the train. "I expected the people here dealt with odd Mechs on a daily basis but I suppose I was wrong."

Ratchet hummed, glancing out the window. "Probably makes it worse, honestly."

Orion rested his chin in his hands. "You really are health minister Ratchet, aren't you?"

Ratchet glanced at the partition dividing their both from all the others before returning to watching out the window. The train began its long journey forward with a hiss and lurch. "You didn't believe I was before?"

Orion shook his helm. "I wasn't sure. I am now."

"Then did you really believe my innocence?" Ratchet's voice remained steady, despite his refusal to meet Orion's gaze.

"I wanted to," the archivist mumbled. "I never thought you would hurt me though, innocent our not."

The empurat glanced towards his companion, single optic drawn down to a single point of light. "You really are naive, you know that?" 

Orion frowned, almost looking offended. "Does that mean you would hurt me?"

Ratchet shook his helm, returning to watching the buildings they were speeding by. The landscape became more sparse the further out of central Kaon they got. Within a hour they would be in the wild-lands, the barren space between cities scattered with energon mines and wilderness. "What if I was a murderer, like you first thought?"

Orion tilted his helm, brow pulling together. "I never thought you were a murderer. I wouldn't have approached you if I had."

"And how did you know I wasn't?" Ratchet leaned heavily against the window, apparently bored with watching the landscape. Instead he watched Orion intently.

The archivist fidgeted under the gaze. "You seemed kind. Lost but sweet."

Ratchet scoffed. "Naive."

Orion ignored the comment. "Do you intend to return to the Senate?"

"You think they would have me?" The empurat asked, sounding incredulous. "I have no interest in being anywhere near those mechs. No, I'll be returning to my clinic, if my apprentice has managed to keep it intact this long."

"You have an apprentice?" Orion latched onto the subject, sensing Ratchet's unease surrounding the senate. 

Ratchet hummed, optic narrowing in what Orion had come to learn was a smile. "Bright kid from an upper class family. I can't pay him much, but he works hard and learns fast."

Orion returned the smile. Ratchet was obviously fond of the kid. "Will you show me your clinic? Once you're settled some?" 

Ratchet nodded stiffly. "Not sure it's still standing, but if it is, I'd be glad to show you."

"Thank you," Orion said, honestly meaning it. "Ratchet, may I ask you something?"

The empurat looked up, optic bright and curious. "You've never been hesitant about it before."

The archivist nodded, looking sheepish. He took Ratchet's remark as permission to continue. "Megatronus likened your empurata to that of High Councilor Halogen. He was never cast out of the senate, and yet you were starving on the streets."

Ratchet hummed deep in his throat, returning solemnly to the window. The landscape consisted of a blur of grey metals and towering formations. The plates of Cyberton's surface overlapping in a dizzying pattern as it speed by. Metal spires rose up in the distance, condensing into forests of rusted and jagged metal, hiding all but the rising smoke of the mines beyond.

"Halogen supports the council," Ratchet said at last, voice calm and even.

"And you do not?" Orion hesitated to pry further, but it seemed that he wouldn't get answers any other way.

"I became senator in hopes of improving the living conditions of the lower classes. Only way I was qualified to speak in the Senate was through medicine. I pushed for better health care for the lower classes." Ratchet snorted, cycling his fans in irritation. "The high council won't budge and Sentinel only listens to the council. It's a dead end."

Orion nodded in understanding. "So you opened your clinic."

"So I opened my clinic," Ratchet's full attention was back on Orion, his confidence bolstered by the archivists apparent approval. "Bought a dinghy little place with my personal savings. Registered it as a body shop. I do enough mod work officially that it's not too far of a stretch for me to have my own lab, and it explains away even my shadier customers." Ratchet seemed to take some personal amusement in his cover-up.

Orion returned it with a smile. "So you're a senator, the CMO of Iacon, a plant renown surgeon, and run an illegal clinic on the side."

Ratchet chuckled, the sound bright and relaxed. "Yes. Though when you say it all at once I seem full of myself."

The archivist shook his head in amazement. "Ratchet," he laughed, "when do you recharge?"

The medic laughed, fully and openly. Surprise and amusement glimmered in his optic. Orion found himself wanting desperately to hear that sound again. "Not often enough. These last two days I've probably slept more than I would on a slow week back in Iacon." The sighed, the joy melting from his features. Orion was sad to see it go. "Thank you for that, by the way. I don't think anyone else would have helped."

Orion nodded, excepting and acknowledging the thanks gratefully. "You're friends will, I'm sure."

Ratchet glanced to the floor for a moment, buying himself a moment to think. "Wheeljack will. Ironhide... I'm not so sure. He's never had a good opinion on empurats and is very loyal to the Senate."

Orion hummed. "More so to the senate than to you?" The archivist worried that he was pushing the bounds of what Ratchet was willing to discuss, but the senator seemed unfazed.

"He has a few friends that are councilors or senators beyond my position. He's been a body guard for several of them and a loyal military mech for even longer." He ran one claw over the other, examining. "We'll see, I suppose."

"I suppose so, yes." Out of questions Orion allowed the silence to hang, allowed Ratchet to grieve and worry. The empurat, seeing the conversation was over, leaned back in the hard transit seat and allowed his optic to dim. Within moments he was asleep, a whistle escaping his half closed vents.

Orion smiled. Despite the large amounts of recharge the medic had claimed to have gotten over the last two days he was evidently still exhausted. He stood as quietly as possible, reaching up to access the overhead storage and the suitcase he'd placed there. The archivist wasn't a fan of keeping large items in his subspace. His lighter mass didn't allow for much storage space and he felt bloated when approaching his maximum storage capacity. From the side pouch of his suitcase he pulled a datapad, one containing the most recent draft of his dissertation. He intended to have it submitted for peer review before the end of the month.

He's always been somewhat concerned about submitting this work, thought in the past his main concern had been believability. Most of what happened to the lower classes was hidden from those above them. After meeting Ratchet, however, his fears shifted somewhat. 

A few corrections to wording later and Orion was startled from his work by a light rap on the door of the train compartment. A minibot stepped into the booth, an electronic counter in one hand, which he clicked twice, and a scanner strapped to his side. "Tickets," he grumbled, throwing a frown towards the still recharging Ratchet. Orion chose to believe the sour look was due to the medic being asleep, not because of his appearance, thought he knew that probably wasn't the case.

The archivist shuffled in subspace for the ticket chits and handed them to the bot. He received a wry look. "You have both tickets?" The minibot slid the first one through his scanner, receiving a positive beep in return.

Orion nodded. "He was having difficulty holding it." He gestured broadly to the claws tucked in Ratchet's lap.

The mech raised a brow ridge but scanned the second ticket. "Hmmm," he hummed when the machine beeped. "It's valid." He handed the chits back to Orion. "He really should be carrying his own. Could get into some mighty trouble if he's separated from you, especially with that frame."

Orion smiled softly, "I'll give it to him when he wakes, thank you." The minibot nodded sharply, closing the door to the train booth as he left.

-

Four hours and thirty more pages revised, the transport hissed to a stop. Ratchet grumbled but did not wake. Orion smiled to himself, pulled down his belongings from the storage rack and placed a hand on Ratchet's knee. A gentle shake had the mech snorting awake, vents catching with a squeal as he jolted up right. Optic dim in disorientation, he glanced about the train car until realizing they were no longer moving.

"Should have woken me sooner," he grumbled, rubbing at his back struts.

"You seemed like you needed the rest." Orion waited patiently for Ratchet to haul himself up before leading the way out of the train car. "Your T-Cog's still intact, right?"

Ratchet nodded, folding down into an ambulance that matched the bulk of his root form once they reached the transformation lane. :Lead the way.: Orion stepped ahead of the other, transforming as well.

The drive to the archivist's apartment was silent save for the rumbling engines of the surrounding traffic. Ratchet reveled in the lack of stares, his mutilation hidden deep in his altmode. 

Orion's apartment was stark but warm. There were a few datapads stacked on the kitchen table but not much in the way of homely objects in the room. It was obviously a place for the archivist to recharge and fuel but not much more. Orion held the door open, a hand on the side of the frame to keep it from sliding closed while Ratchet stepped through.

“The guest room is the second door on the left,” Orion pointed out, letting the door slide shut behind him. “The washracks are the door next to the kitchen. You're welcome to any of the supplies in there or any of the energon in the kitchen.”

Ratchet listened attentively, nodding. “How long are you willing to host me? I don't want to stay longer than my welcome.”

Orion's optics widened, looking taken aback. “There's no limit Ratchet. You're welcome here as long as you need and as long as you feel comfortable. I won't kick you out.”

Ratchet nodded slowly, like he didn't quite believe his host. “Thank you, I'll start looking for a job after I speak with Wheeljack tomorrow. I can at least pay rent.”

Orion sighed but didn't protest. If Ratchet needed to offer some form of compensation then Orion wouldn't deny him that. It would help with any of Ratchet's future medical bills if Orion would be paying those expenses. The archivist did well for himself but was not wealthy. Being primarily a mod maker, the medic Orion had recommended was not cheep, though he was discreet.

Ratchet stepped fully into the apartment’s kitchen, looking around. He seemed like he wanted to make himself a cube but was hesitant to do so. Orion pulled a small cube from the dispenser and opened the spice cabinet before leaving to unpack.

He watched from his berthroom door as the medic struggled to pry the lid off a jar of copper. He pressed his claws into the counter in frustration when the lid did not give way. He shook, breathing deeply to clear his anger.

Steadying himself, Ratchet tried again. He hooked a claw under the lid of the container on either side of the jar. Using the other claw to hold the base of the jar, he carefully twisted. The lid creaked to the side. Ratchet's optic brightened. A few more careful turns and the lid popped free.

“Ha!” Ratchet breathed. His pose straightened ever so slightly as he spooned out the additive. Orion smiled fondly from the doorway but ducked out of sight before Ratchet could turn around.

He pulled the last of his suitcase, storing the safely away in his dresser. When he returned to the main living area Ratchet was sitting at the small kitchen table, carefully sipping at his energon. Orion joined him, arms crossed over the tabletop. 

“We have enough time to visit Wheeljack tonight if you want,” The archivist offered. “The address you gave me isn't terribly far from here.”

Ratchet shook his helm. “He'll still be at the lab. Best bet is to catch him in the morning.”

Orion hummed. “I have work mid-morning, but I'm more than willing to stay for an hour or two, or even just drop you off.”

“I can get there on my own,” Ratchet countered.

“I would like to meet your friends.” Orion smiled sincerely, pointedly not mentioning his worry over the empurat traveling alone. 

Ratchet sighed, “Fine, Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you about Wheeljack, though. He's... a bit over enthusiastic.” 

The archivist chuckled. “I look forward to meeting him then.”

Another sip of his fuel and Ratchet stood, looking exhausted. “I'll see you in the morning, then.”

“Just put that in the freezer,” Orion said in regards to the remaining half of Ratchet energon. “It'll keep until morning.”

Ratchet silently did as asked before retiring to the guest room. Orion watched the door shut from his seat. Hanging his helm, he sighed. There was a mech, a strong, vibrant, brilliant mech, still inside the mutilated frame. It would simply take a great deal to pull him back to the surface. Orion wasn't sure were to start.

-

For all it was unadorned, the door to Wheeljack's apartment loomed. The engineer's name, inscribed beneath the room number, seemed to waver, growing and shrinking as Ratchet swayed on his pedes, attempting desperately to steel his resolve. Orion stood patiently behind him as he had for the last then five minutes, hoping Ratchet would ping the door in his own time.

When it became obvious that the empurat wasn't going to act in a reasonable time frame, Orion reached around him to rap on the door. There was a crash of metal and a muffled “coming!” from the other side of the door. Ratchet's single optic narrowed in Orion's direction but he said nothing.

The door opened only a crack, just wide enough for Wheeljack to poke his helm through. The engineer looked exhausted, optics a pale blue instead of their usual vibrant color and paint in poor maintenance. One helm fin had a sizable dent in the underside that had yet to be pounded out. Wheeljack looked both mech's over with obvious suspicion. “Can I help you?”

“Ah...” Orion glanced to Ratchet, who had his helm down turned and arms crossed over his chest, likely in an attempt to hide his hands. Pax stepped around the medic and offered his hand to Wheeljack. “I apologize for such an early intrusion into your day. My designation is Orion Pax.” Wheeljack wormed a hand through the door to shake the archivist's outstretched one. 

“Wheeljack,” he mumbled in return, optics still wide with concern and confusion.

“I'm just here to make sure Ratchet arrives alright,” Orion explained.

“Ratchet...? Look, if this is a joke, these last few months have been hard enough...” Wheeljack paused, brow furrowed for a moment before his optics flared and his gaze snapped to the mechs standing beside Orion. “Ratch?” he whispered.

“Hey, 'Jack,” Ratchet mumbled in return, still refusing to meet the others' gaze.

“Oh, Primus, Ratchet!” The engineer flung the door open, practically pulling both mech's through. “In, in. Quickly.” He slammed the door behind them, locking it tightly. He whirled about, holding a finger to his lips before dashing off to another room. The device the engineer returned with resembled a datapad with scrap metal welded to the back. 

“Percy found mics on a few things in your apartment when we were packing it up,” he explained after running the device in his hands over several boxes in the corner of the entryway, switching it off. “Haven't had a chance to check this stuff yet. Only brought it back yesterday. All clear though.”

Ratchet stepped forward, optic narrowed. “You cleared out my apartment?” Wheeljack intercepted him before he could reach his belongings, wrapping the empurat in a crushing hug. Ratchet froze, frame stiff and claws held as far away as he could keep them from Wheeljack with the engineer pinning his arms to his sides. Wheeljack didn't appear to notice, pulling away to hold Ratchet by the shoulders.

“Primus, Ratchet,” he breathed. “They told us you were dead. Found a frame in your apartment, electrocuted. Told us it was suicide.” He shook his head, helm fins flashing a distressed green. “Percy and I didn't want to believe it. 'Hid refused to. They had a body, Ratchet, looked just like you. Even that scratch that druggy gave you, right across your chevron.”

He paused, taking a moment to vent and to take stalk of Ratchet's appearance. “Primus, Ratch, what did they do to you?”

Ratchet sighed, resting a set of claws over Wheeljack's hand. “Slow down, Jack. Let's just go sit, and we can talk, okay?”

Wheeljack nodded, pulling Ratchet into another hug. “I missed you. Don't ever do that to me again.” Halfway through dragging Ratchet into the living room, an amused Orion following behind, Wheeljack gasped. “I have to call Percy. He's been inconsolable.”

Ratchet caught his friend's wrist. “Let's just sit and talk for a minute, 'Jack. We can call Percy later.”

Wheeljack froze, glancing down at the pair of claws gripped loosely around his wrist. Ratchet let go in a hurry, returning his arms to a crossed position over his chest. Wheeljack watched, a saddened look falling over his features. “Okay, yeah sure,” he agreed. “We can talk.”

The engineer gestured towards the sitting area. Ratchet gratefully found his favorite chair, an old, padded arm chair that easily accepted his bulky medic's frame. Orion awkwardly settled on the couch to Ratchet's right. Wheeljack shuffled nervously, still standing by the entry room.

“Would you like something to drink?” The engineer's helm fins flushed nervously as he looked to Orion.

“Sit down, 'Jack,” Ratchet snapped, patience wearing thin. Wheeljack complied in a rush, stiffly falling into his usual chair across from Ratchet. 

All three mechs sat silently for a moment until Ratchet spoke up. “Have you been recharging, Jack?” he asked. “You look awful.”

“You left a suicide note, Ratchet.” Wheeljack buried his hands between his legs. “Said you were unhappy with the state of things, had been unhappy for a while, and weren't accomplishing anything as a senator.” Wheeljack hung his helm, sighing deeply. Ratchet had to fight the urge to reach a hand across and comfort his friend. He doubted Wheeljack would appreciate it after how he'd reacted when Ratchet had grabbed him.

“I'm alive, 'Jack,” he assured instead. “I promise I didn't leave a note. I would never do that to you.”

Jack's helm fins flashed rapid pulses of color as he cycled through a barrage of emotions before settling on a distinctly worried yellow. “Then who wrote it?”

“If I may?” Orion spoke up. “The senate is the only ones to preform empurata. How likely is it that multiple groups are at play here?”

Wheeljack shook his helm, standing to crouch in front of Ratchet. He grabbed the base of the mech's helm, twisting it gently to the side. Ratchet flinched at the touch but allowed it. “Oh, Ratch,” he breathed. “You helm. You hands.” He pulled a clawed hand up from Ratchet's lap, examining the wrist where it connected. Fresh looking welds crisscrossed under wires and over protoform. Wheeljack rubbed a particularly angry looking mark. “Does it hurt?” He asked.

Ratchet gave one shake of his helm before stopping and admitting, “A little.”

“And your helm?” 

Ratchet nodded again, sliding his free hand over Wheeljack's wrist comfortingly. “I'm okay, 'Jack. I promise.” 

Wheeljack hummed, not fully believing his friend but willing to let it slide for the moment. “What happened?” he asked, sitting on the floor instead of returning to his seat.

“Promise I didn't murder anyone?” Ratchet's small attempt at humor was met with a soft snort. The medic sighed, “I honestly don't know, 'Jack. I locked up the clinic and woke up in a trash pile in Kaon nearly two months later.”

“Sounds like a failed murder attempt to me,” Orion leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. “But then why the empurata? Or such a large time gap?”

Ratchet shook his helm, sighing. “Humiliation, perhaps? I don't have many friends in the senate. Enemies though...” He turned to face Orion, single optic pinched at the edges. “You sure it's smart to keep me around, kid?”

Orion smiled, bright and genuine. “I offered you a place to stay, I'm not backing out of that now.” 

Wheeljack's optics lit up. “You're not staying here?”

Ratchet glanced between Orion and the engineer. “I... don't know how safe that is...”

Wheeljack's optics narrowed in confusion. 

“If this was a murder attempt,” Ratchet explained. “We probably don't want to alert anyone that it was unsuccessful just yet. The senate knows I'm close to you. Pit, they know Percy and 'Hide well enough. They don't know Orion.” Wheeljack still looked hesitant. Ratchet sighed, glancing towards the archivist at his side before returning to the mech at his feet. “He's a good mech, 'Jack. He gave me fuel and a place to sleep, even defended me against a few real afts. I feel safe with him. Besides, you know I don't take any scrap. Probably what landed me in this mess.” He huffed, vents blowing hot air into the room.

“Yeah,” Wheeljack sighed, “You're a real aft sometimes.” He stood, bowing his back in a deep stretch. “Can I go call Percy now?”

Ratchet nodded. “Mind if I go through my stuff?”

Wheeljack shrugged, obviously exhausted. “It's your stuff. Want any energon?”

Ratchet was already pulling the storage box of his belongings out of the corner, using a sharp claw to break the tape seal on the top. “Copper and mercury, please,” he called over his shoulder.

“Mind if I help?” Orion stood, following Wheeljack at the engineer's nod.

The apartment kitchen was fairly small but well kept. Like the rest of Wheeljack's home unfinished projects were scattered over the table, but all the energon additives were in neatly labeled jars arranged on a shelf above several heating elements. Wheeljack quickly poured three cubes adding spices to two of them before turning to Orion. The archivist pulled a jar of sulfur from the shelf, adding a pinch to the final cube and turning on the heating element.

Wheeljack leaned back against the counter. “Thank you,” he said after a moment of silence, “for helping him.”

Orion nodded in acknowledgment. “How does he seem to you?”

Wheeljack shook his head. “He's trying to be okay.”

Orion hummed, having observed the same. “He's not fueling well.” Wheeljack's optics lit up in concern. Orion continued, “he'll start drinking a cube, take a few sips, then set it aside. He was starving when I found him, trying to eat solid crystals, but never finished the cube I gave him or any subsequent ones.”

Wheeljack's brow furrowed. “Might be him not wanting to accept help. He dipped a finger into one of the cubes of energon, testing the temperature. “I'll get on him if he does it here. I thought his optics looked pale.” He paused. “Optic...Singular.”

Orion smiled sadly. “What did he look like before?”

Wheeljack rolled his optics, what showed over his face mask hinting at a smile. “Decently handsome, though he'd disagree. Square jaw, his chevron was bigger.” The engineer shrugged. “We've never been more than friends and I've never been particularly good at paying attention to things like that.” He paused. “That's what you're asking, right?”

Orion shook his head, then paused and reluctantly nodded. He had the grace to look embarrassed.

Wheeljack laughed, helm-fins flashing. “You're not the type he usually goes for, I'll admit, but that's probably a good thing. Usually he goes for mech's with equal temperament, doesn't end well.”

The archivist smiled, glad Ratchet's friend wasn't upset by his interest. “I like him. He's kind and passionate. Two optics or one, he's rather handsome.” Orion settled his hands behind his back. “I like him but I'm not sure a relationship is what he needs right now." 

Wheeljack hummed sagely, pulling the glasses of energon off the warming plates and handing one to Orion. He fished a straw from a drawer. “He needs friends, people he can trust. If that grows into a romance then I don't think it's a bad thing. Come on, let's go see if he'll drink this.” The engineer led Orion back into the main living area. Ratchet was sat on the floor, surrounded by a half empty box and small piles of knick knacks. A took kit was open in front of him as he examined each piece of equipment for damage.

“Hey, 'Jack,” he called over his shoulder. “How'd my holoframe get damaged?”

Wheeljack placed a glass of spiced fuel next to the medic. “Probably got knocked over during the enforcer investigation. Your place was a mess when we got there.”

Ratchet sighed, pulling out a cleaning kit from the storage box. “That one was all of our university pictures,” he lamented. 

“I've got copies of most of them,” Wheeljack assured, “I'm going to call Percy. Drink your energon.” The engineer gave Orion a hopeful glance before returning to the kitchen, already pinging Perceptor.

Orion sat down next to Ratchet, glancing through the pile of datapads while he sipped at his fuel. Most of it was medical texts, one was even an academic paper that Ratchet was writing. Several pads, however, contained mystery novels. One of the novels had book marked pages with very thorough annotations.

Ratchet caught him skimming the text and flared his field in an approximation of a smile. “You much of a book nerd, working in the archives?” The medic took a few greedy sips from his energon before putting the cube down again.

Orion smiled sheepishly. “Historical non-fiction, mostly. And some romance novels.”

Ratchet's optic quirked up on one side. “Romance? The sappy kind?”

“Tank curdlingly so, according to Megatronus.” That made Ratchet laugh, a deep rumbling noise with a few half snorts thrown in. “They're not that bad,” Orion defended. “Megatronus just isn't much for romance.” Ratchet's laughter grew and Orion found himself smiling along with the medic.

Wheeljack poked his helm into the room, fins a bright amused yellow. “Percy's on his way.”

Ratchet's optic flashed. “He's coming over?”

Wheeljack pulled back his blast mask to take a sip of his energon. “He thought you were dead, of course he's coming over.” Wheeljack's mouth quirked up into a awkward smile. The protoform of his lower face was crisscrossed with a plethora of scar tissue. A section of his lower lip was missing, revealing a glimpse of white denta. Orion did his best not the stare as Wheeljack joined them on the floor.

Wheeljack accepted a few tools and cleaning cloths from Ratchet, helping the medic clean off some of the more delicate tools than Ratchet could handle. “I was thinking,” Wheeljack started. “I can probably have a new helm built for you within a week or two.”

Ratchet tilted his helm to the side. “A helm? I don't know, 'Jack...”

Wheeljack rolled his optics. “I've been building protoforms and custom frames for vorns. It's not going to blow up.”

Ratchet held up his claws placatingly. “I have complete faith in your skills.” He paused, “If Percy supervises.” Wheeljack huffed indignantly. Ratchet continued anyway, “If the senate wanted me... disappeared, it's probably not too wise of me to reappear without some real protection.”

Wheeljack sighed, swirling his energon in its glass. “Can I at least start on it?”

“And where are you going to get that much cybertronium without raising suspicion?” Ratchet asked. 

“I don't know,” Wheeljack whined. “I'll wait until I get a custom order in, order it with that. No-one tracks how much I use.”

“And the micro-circuitry?” Ratchet persisted. “I know you order that premade.”

Wheeljack waved a hand loosely, brushing off the concern. “Perceptor can make that easy.”

Ratchet sighed, relenting. “Fine, fine. Work on the hands first though.”

The engineer nodded. “Of course.” He glanced down to Ratchet's half finished cube of energon. He'd only taken a few sips before putting it aside. “You not hungry?”

Ratchet shrugged, continuing to sort through his belongings. Wheeljack rolled his optics. “Orion said you haven't been fueling well.” Ratchet turned, glancing over his shoulder, optic narrowed. Wheeljack returned the look. “Your optic is too dim, Ratch. Why haven't you been fueling?”

“Full tank,” Ratchet offered. Wheeljack scooted closer. “I'm fine, 'Jack. Drop it.”

The engineer huffed. “Finish your cube and I will.”

“I already told you, 'Jack,” Ratchet argued. “My tank is full.”

“How's that possible.” Orion ventured hesitantly into the conversation. “You hardly drank anything last night and had nothing this morning.”

Wheeljack's glare deepened. “Alright, lay back. Let me grab my scanner.”

Ratchet sat up straighter. “Jack, no. I'm fine. No exams.”

Wheeljack held up a finger, prepared to argue when a small knock came from the entryway. The engineer shook his head as he rose, motioning for Ratchet to stay put with a forceful palm up. The medic shooed his friend off defensively. The door slid open at a ping from Wheeljack, revealing two figures, one small but stalky, while the other towered over his companion. A scope extended from the shoulder of the largest mech, clearly displaying him as a high caste scientist. Wheeljack pulled the both of them inside, hastily shutting the door. He pulled the microscope into a quick hug before spinning him around to face Ratchet.

“Told you,” he said, obviously pleased. Perceptor nodded slowly. He was silent for a long moment.

“Morning, Percy,” Ratchet said awkwardly. “Glad to see you.”

The scientist nodded, visibly unsettled. “I brought First Aid.”

The young medic stepped around his companion, obviously just as nervous but more willing to push past that. He crouched down in front of his mentor, wrapping his arms carefully around Ratchet's spindly neck. The older mech cupped his arms around First Aid's shoulders. He purposefully kept his claws well away from the other's plating. Ratchet's optic slid closed as Perceptor joined them at Wheeljack's urging. The three of them reveled in the warmth of each others frames. 

“Thank Primus, you're okay,” First Aid breathed, vocalizer clicking.

“I'm alive, Aid. I'm okay.” Ratchet rubbed circles over the younger medic's back which his wrist while leaning further into Perceptor's side. Wheeljack watched with a soft smile made stiff by his scarred mouth. Orion joined him in leaning against the wall, giving Ratchet and his companions space.

First Aid had mostly pulled himself back from his near breakdown but seemed reluctant to let go of his mentor. Perceptor gently gripped his shoulder, pulling him away and allowing Ratchet to relax.

“Where did you go?” First Aid asked. “We've been planning a funeral, Ratch. I had enforcers asking me if I'd noticed any suicidal behavior or destructive tendencies. They had your body.”

Ratchet nodded, seemingly unsure how else to react to the others distress. “I'm sorry.”

Wheeljack knelt down next to First Aid. “Did you bring your medkit?” The junior medic frowned but nodded. “Ratchet's not fueling; check him over for me? He won't let me do it.”

Aid pulled back from Ratchet, frown deepening. “You're not fueling? Why?”

Ratchet pushed away. “They're over-reacting. I'm fine.”

“Then a quick exam will prove that.” The elder medic seemed to shrink into himself as First Aid spoke. Orion frowned from his perch against the wall, were Ratchet could not see. 

“Ratchet,” Orion spoke up, “Your friends won't hurt you.” First Aid's gaze dropped at the archivist's words, suddenly realizing why his mentor was being evasive. Wheeljack made a concerned noise, recognizing the same.

Ratchet glanced around, optic wide and bright. He huffed loudly, crossing his arms. “Fine, fine, but not on the floor.” He stood, turning towards the guest berthroom in the back of the apartment. First Aid followed with a subtle motion for the others to stay put. They may have been Ratchet's closest friends but patient confidentiality still applied.

Ratchet sat on the edge of the padded berth, claws buried between his thighs. First Aid leaned against the wall across from him, medical kit already out of his subspace and on the berth side table.

“You're not fueling?” First Aid reiterated.

Ratchet shook his helm. “I am, my tank is just full.”

“Okay,” The junior medic sighed, “let's take a look. Lay back.” Ratchet hesitated but did as asked, swinging his pedes up onto the berth. First Aid pulled his scanner out, running it over Ratchet's abdomen.

“Any pain?” He asked, poking at the scanner screen.

“Some twinges if I try to stretch,” Ratchet mumbled, having resigned himself to the exam. “Right below my tank.”

First Aid hummed, the sound concerned. “Your tank isn't showing up as large as it should. Looks twisted, too.”

Ratchet held out a hand for the scanner. First Aid carefully placed the device between his claws. The elder medic's optic narrowed at the screen before handing the device back. “Do a physical.”

First Aid nodded, slowly, placing the scanner aside. His hands hovered over Ratchet's abdominal armor. The empurat nodded. Aid slipped a skilled hand under the platting, pressing down gently on the protoform. Ratchet flinched.

“Pain?” First Aid asked. Ratchet shook his head.

“Keep going. I'm fine.” The words sounded forced. Aid continued none the less. He felt the give of Ratchet's pliable mesh protoform and the solid components entangled with it. A gap in the otherwise compact internal structure caught First Aid by surprise. The area compressed far too easily, hinting at damage just below Ratchet's fuel tank.

First Aid eased his hands out from under the elder's thoracic platting. It was only then that he noticed how tightly Ratchet was holding himself. His helm was nearly touching his chest and his hands shook where they were buried in the berth coverings.

“Ratchet?” First Aid asked gently. “Do you want me to get Wheeljack?”

Ratchet shook his helm. “Orion?” He offered instead.

“You're okay with him knowing whatever medical information we discuss?” As a professional the young medic was obligated to ask.

“Full consent,” Ratchet mumbled, frame just starting to loosen.

First Aid poked his head out the door of the guest room. The other three mechs were still huddled on the floor, speaking in hushed tones. Perceptor glanced up curiously at the junior medic.

“Orion?” First Aid called. “Mind joining me?”

“Of course.” Orion stood, following Aid into the hall. “Everything okay?”

“He's panicking,” Aid explained. “A hand to hold might help.” Orion nodded, following the medic into the guest room. Ratchet was sitting upon the edge of the berth, obviously trying to compose himself. His claws were clenched in his lap, hidden from view. Orion sat on the berth next to the empurat.

“Are you okay?” Orion asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Ratchet nodded. “Just some bad memories.”

“Do you remember the empurata?” Orion asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Flashes,” Ratchet admitted. “They had me under for most of it. But... yeah, flashes.”

“Ratch?” First Aid stepped forward, doing his best to make himself seem small. “I have some sedative chips, not enough to put you out, but it might help you relax.”

Ratchet took a moment to answer, considering the offer. “I'll be fine,” he said eventually, nudging Orion over to the other side of the berth so he could lie back down. 

“I want to remove your abdominal armor,” First Aid explained, sitting next to his mentor. “Hopefully I'll be able to see the damage.”

Ratchet nodded, letting out a shaky vent as he found Orion's hand. The archivist curled his fingers around one claw, rubbing a thumb over Ratchet's wrist. He marveled silently at the amount of trust Ratchet was placing in him. That he hadn't asked for Wheeljack or Perceptor spoke to Ratchet's confidence in Orion's opinion of him. He wasn't afraid that Orion would reject him for his frame.

With a gentle touch, First Aid unlatched the largest chunk of armor covering Ratchet's chest. The empurat activated the appropriate codes to release his sensor net form the armor and unlocking internal latches. The process took almost a full five minutes to remove the upper most piece, which had to be put aside for First Aid to get the piece he was really interested in removing from over Ratchet's fuel tank.

The empurat spent the process in a forcefully relaxed pose, claws shaking in Orion's hold. First Aid frowned sadly. He'd never seen his mentor like this. Brash, grumpy, fearless Ratchet, now terrified and damaged. Whether or not Wheeljack managed to rebuild his helm and hands, Ratchet would need years to rebuild himself and his confidence. It hurt to watch.

After a long, tense wait, First Aid managed to disconnect Ratchet's secondary thoracic plate. The moment he caught a proper look at Ratchet's internal structures he cursed.

Ratchet's optic popped open. He struggled to look into his own abdominal cavity. He couldn't see over his chassis well, but could make out the sharp gleam of crumpled metal.

“Frag,” he mumbled, though the explicative carried much less worry than First Aid's tone.

“Your lower fuel tank is crushed,” Aid said, swallowing down built up oral fluid.

Orion risked a cautious glance to where the two medics were looking. He gagged, clamping his free hand over his mouth.

Ratchet gave him a wry look. “Very supportive, thank you,” he teased.

The archivist laid his forehead against the edge of the berth with a laugh, “sorry.” He squeezed Ratchet's claw, feeling the medic flinch when First Aid touched his side again.

First Aid leaned over Ratchet's side, using an inbuilt light to get a better look at the damage. “Looks deliberate,” he said, sounding purely professional again. “None of your external plating or surrounding protoform is damaged. Actually...” He placed a gentle hand on Ratchet's side, carefully pulling aside a swath of cables and mesh. “This looks like it was done with a heavy surgical clam.”

“Another form of mutilation?” Orion asked, pulling his helm from the berth, careful to avoid looking at Ratchet's exposed torso.

“Probably,” Ratchet mumbled, anger evident in his tone. “I wouldn't put it past those fraggers.”

“No wonder you look under fueled.” First Aid sat back, visor dimming. “That tank can't hold more than a liter or two of fuel.” He sighed, sounding resigned. “There's nothing to be done about it here. Both your intake and processing valves are connected and working decently, there's no reason to rush this. We can replace it down at the clinic and do a more thorough exam.” He lifted one of Ratchet's thinner, inner plates, carefully placing it over Ratchet's internals. He supported the plate until Ratchet's connector pins took over, reintegrating the plate into his sensor net and substructure. 

“How quickly does what's in your tank burn?” Orion inquired, “with it crushed like that?”

First Aid hummed, answering for his mentor, “As quickly as it would otherwise. There's just less fuel to burn.” Ratchet was back to clamping his optic shut, claws tight around Orion's hand. First Aid tapped Ratchet's chevron, getting his attention. The empurat's optic peaked open only a sliver. “That means you're going to need to drink small amounts frequently to keep fueled.” Ratchet nodded, closing his optic shut again as First Aid moved on to attaching his most outer armor.

“You should have told me you were starving,” Orion said, voice hushed.

Ratchet sighed, hot air flowing from his vents in a whistle as he forced himself to relax the seals. “Better than the gutters.”

“Ratchet-” Orion made to protest, but the medic cut him off.

“Drop it, kid.” He leaned his helm back into the berth, finally relaxing when the last of his armor reintegrated. “You can let go of my hand now.”

Orion gave Ratchet's claws a final squeeze before dropping his hands into his lap. He found himself reluctant to let go. 

The medic sat up when he heard First Aid shuffling his tools back into his subspace. The younger mech handed him a full cube of prepackaged medical grade energon and a straw.

“Drink slow and frequently,” he said, standing back to let Ratchet off the berth. “I want your strength back up.”

Ratchet grunted, but sipped at the fuel. He let his apprentice lead him from the berthroom, Orion trailing behind. Wheeljack waved the group over to the couch, smiling behind his blast mask. The five of them barely fit into the seating area, First Aid ending up sitting on an arm rest instead of the actual couch. Wheeljack and Perceptor watched the junior medic expectantly. He just shrugged, glancing to Ratchet.

“I'm fine,” Ratchet grunted, taking another small sip of his energon. “Going to need some surgery, but that's not new.”

“Anything we can do?” Perceptor asked.

“Is the clinic still standing?” Ratchet said, turning to First Aid.

The junior medic nodded. “I've kept it locked since you... disappeared.”

Ratchet hummed. “Probably smart. We should have the supplies we need there.” He rubbed his neck, working the blunt curves of his claws into the cables.

“How smart is it for you to go down to Rodion right now, Ratch?” Wheeljack protested. “The council clearly wants you dead. Don't drive right into their hands.”

“I'm not going to just lay down and submit, 'Jack.” Ratchet rested his cube on his leg, holding it securely with both hands. “But, it's not like I can go to Iacon General for treatment. The clinic is the best option right now. Besides, I have a job to do and I'm not going to hide from that.”

“And how are you going to do that, Ratchet? You have no hands, no helm.” Wheeljack's helm fins flared bright red, not angry, but insistent. “Those mechs down in the dead-end aren't going to trust an empurat.”

Ratchet leapt to his pedes. Orion managed to catch his cube before it hit the floor, grateful for the non-spill barrier most presealed cubes came with. Only a small amount spilled to the floor, escaping from the straw. “I have been helping those mechs for vorns!” Ratchet was practically shouting. “How dare you imply me a criminal for doing so.”

Wheeljack held up both hands, placating. “I never said you were a criminal. I would never believe that, Ratch. But the mechs down in Rodion have been attacked and prosecuted their whole lives. Empurats are said to be sadistic and depraved. A gutters mech that no-one would miss is the perfect target for that kind of person.”

Ratchet shook his helm. “You're wrong, 'Jack. I've worked with these mechs for vorns. They know me. Maybe not personally but I'm well known down in the slums.”

“And they don't wonder why you, a highly skilled medic, are down there?” Wheeljack's tone was cautious. “I'm sorry, Ratch, but some sick tendencies would be a fairly reasonable explanation.”

“I'll back him up,” First Aid spoke up. “Ratchet can work the backroom or assist on surgeries instead of doing exams.” He turned to his mentor, visor bright. “If you want to go back to work, I'll back it. After some treatment.”

“Aid...”Perceptor sounded ready to protest.

“No,” First Aid cut him off. “I understand why Ratchet wants to work, and from a medical standpoint, I recommend it. The fine motor practice would be beneficial.”

“Fine,” Wheeljack threw his hands up, slumping back in his chair. “Fine. But keep an optic on him. Violence against empurats isn't rare.”

Ratchet huffed, sitting back in his chair. “It's the upper class you have to worry about, not gutter's mechs.” He accepted his energon cube back from Orion.

Wheeljack's optic squinted, looking ready to protest again.

“We'll watch out for him,” Orion cut in, glancing to First Aid for back up. The young medic nodded. Wheeljack looked apprehensive but stayed silent.

Orion stood, dusting himself off. “I apologize. I need to get to the archives. Ratchet, you're welcome to come with, I have a private office, or you know where my apartment is when you're ready to leave.”

Ratchet hummed gratefully. “I'll see you tonight. I want to make sure the clinic is in good order.”

Wheeljack stood, walking Orion out. He joined him in the hall, shutting the apartment door behind himself. “Thank you for taking care of him,” he said, helm flashing yellow. “He wouldn't have survived out there. Not for long.”

Orion nodded, accepting the gratitude gracefully. “He'd survived a while already.”

Wheeljack shook his helm. “You saw his optics, how tired he is.” The engineer chuckled lightly. “Don't let him fool you. He usually has much more bite.”

Orion smiled. “I look forward to seeing that.”

“Me too.” Wheeljack held out a hand, letting his field mingle with Orion's as they shook. “Really, thank you. We owe you a lot.”

The archivist nodded, shaking Wheeljack's hand with a firm grip. He desperately hoped to see the mech Wheeljack spoke of in the near future.


	3. Chapter 3

First Aid followed Ratchet silently in alt-mode through the city, only stepping forward once they reached the clinic to unlock the door. There was a dirty mech sitting a few feet away from the door, cradling his arm. He gave Ratchet a sidelong look when the empurat transformed. The medic didn't meet his gaze.

“You the medic?” The gutter's mech asked First Aid.

The young mech nodded, ushering both his mentor and the injured mech inside. “Go wait in the office,” he said to Ratchet. “I'll meet you there in a moment.” Ratchet huffed but did as asked.

Even with the door of his office closed shut he could still hear the junior medic and his patient converse as they settled into the exam room.

“ There have been rumors you up and left. Don't you normally open earlier than this?”

“Normally. There was a personal emergency I had to take care of.”

“No one died, yeah?”

“No, no one died. Raise your arm for me.”

Ratchet tuned out the conversation, doing his best to respect patient confidentiality. They really needed to sound proof the exam rooms better. They just didn't have the funds, especially with Ratchet now out of a job.

The empurat lowered his helm down to the desk, sighing. The cold, solid metal was surprisingly soothing. The edge of the desk, however, pressed painfully into the still healing dent in his forehelm, forcing him to readjust. He rubbed at the dent with the back of a claw. Despite all the trouble it had earned him, Ratchet was indebted to Megatronous for his generosity.

Ratchet reached into his subspace, fishing out a dented and worn datapad. He'd been so exhausted the last two days that he'd forgotten about the letter Megatronous had left him. A touch and the screen flickered to life. He set the pad on his lap, hunching until just the tip of his helm was resting on the desk, bringing the pad close enough to read. He hadn't read like this since he was a youngling.

The message on the pad was hand written in beautiful, scrolling glyphs. Megatronous may have been a miner turned gladiator but he was obviously well educated.

“Ratchet,” the letter began, “I fear I may have miss-judged you. Even in the pits we hold preconceived conceptions of each other, especially empurats. Conceptions I'm now sure are mostly propaganda. I apologize for my behavior.

“Once you have settled and are secure again I would be honored if you would contact me. Orion can provide you my comm. code. A friend of mine is very interested in meeting you.

“Change needs to be made within our society and our laws. I'm sure you have seen that these past few weeks. Your story, as Orion has explained it to me, makes it all the more obvious to me that this change will not and cannot come from the senate. It must come from the people.

“I wish you well and safe. You are always welcome in my home if you are ever in need of shelter.

“-Megatronous”

What are you reading?” Ratchet jolted, startled by his apprentice's voice. First Aid mumbled an apology, shutting the office door while Ratchet composed himself.

“A letter,” Ratchet answered. “One of Orion's friends, he helped me in Kaon.”

First Aid hummed, sitting across the desk from Ratchet. “May I see your wrist?” The empurat held out a hand, leaning his chest against the desk. “Any pain?” he asked, flexing his mentor's wrist.

“A little,” Ratchet admitted. “Mostly when I flex the claws.”

First Aid nodded, closing his hand around Ratchet's. “Looks like some badly connected wires. With how nervous you seem about exams I'm not sure I want to do an exploratory today. How would you feel about me doing an exam when I replace your tank?”

Ratchet glanced to the side of the desk, eying the small crystal garden there. It had been a gift from a grateful miner. “I trust you.”

“Then I have your consent to do an exploratory exam while you're in stasis?”

“Yes, yes,” Ratchet said, standing. “Now, how's the inventory held up?”

First Aid followed his mentor to the back store room. “We're running low on clamps. Two more broke. Pain chips are low, too.”

“As usual,” Ratchet huffed, pulling the most recent inventory chart from the wall where it hung. He flicked quickly through the information. “Not too bad,” he muttered, returning the chart to it's place on the wall. “Any unusual visits, lately? Enforcers, council lackeys?”

First Aid sighed. “A few enforcers came by my apartment to question me on... on your suicide. Just asked if I'd noticed anything. Nothing he asked seemed off. But like I said, I've had this place closed since you went missing.”

“It might just be the council in on this, not the enforcers.” Ratchet reached up to rub the back of his neck but accidentally caught a claw in between two cables. He hissed as one was nicked by a still sharp edge of his claw. First Aid calmly came over, carefully easing the claw out of Ratchet's neck. A small stream of energon trickled down to pool in the collar of Ratchet's armor. The junior medic pulled a disinfectant swab and small mesh patch from his subspace. Ratchet hissed through his vents at the sting of the disinfectant.

“I can dull those down for you,” First Aid said. “Add some rubber pads to the ends. It'll make them safer and easier to use.”

Ratchet hummed, obediently holding still while First Aid applied the mesh patch. “Do that during the tank replacement. Might as well get as much done as possible while I'm under.”

“Is Orion picking you up afterward or will you be staying the night here?” The younger medic ran a clean rag over his mentor's armor, removing any traces of spilt energon.

“We haven't discussed it,” Ratchet replied.

“He seems like a sweet bot,” First Aid said, crumpling up the rag and tossing it into a flammable's waist bin.

“Too kind,” Ratchet grumbled. “He's naive.”

First Aid smiled. “Better than the type you normally go for.”

Ratchet spun around to glare at his apprentice. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Ratchet,” First Aid said fondly. “We both know you go for mech's with tempers.”

“You think I'm interested in Orion?” Ratchet placed a hand on his hips, this time being much more careful of his claws. “I only just met him.”

First Aid's visor grew soft as he smiled wider behind his face guard. “You seem to trust him. He's kind and obviously cares about you. You could do a lot worse.”

Ratchet threw his claws up. “I'm not discussing this.” He stalked out of the storeroom door into the main room, which doubled as a work area and a lobby. A small mech stood in the doorway, nervously shifting from pede to pede.

“Can I help you?” Ratchet asked gruffly.

The small blue bot glanced about. “This is a drop-in clinic, right?” Ratchet nodded. “I've been having trouble with my pump. May I make an appointment?”

Ratchet grabbed a pad off the main desk, glancing over the day's scheduled appointments, only to find it blank. “Do you have time for an exam now, or do you want to make an appointment for later?”

“I- I have time now, if there's a medic available.” The mech wrung his hands, obviously nervous. It was fairly common for lower class mechs to be intimidated by medics and their domain as they were so unfamiliar with the setting.

Ratchet tapped the appointment into the datapad before leading the mech back to the exam room. First Aid, who was cleaning a set of tools, watched the two. “Let me know if you need anything, Ratch.” Ratchet just waved over his shoulder, acknowledging the other.

“This clinic hires from the gutters?” The blue mech asked as he sat on the exam berth.

“This is a free clinic,” Ratchet said, pulling out a scanner. “We can't afford to pay employes.”

“Oh,” the mech breathed. “You help the medics then? Without pay?”

Ratchet's optic narrowed. “I'm the chief medic. Lay back please.”

Instead the mech stood, hopping off the berth. “I-is there another medic available?”

Ratchet sighed, leaning against the wall. “Listen, I know I look scary but I'm a fully coded medic and I'm not going to hurt you. I couldn't if I wanted to, code prevents it.”

The mech did not sit back down. “I-I understand, but I'm not-... Could I please see another medic?”

Ratchet threw his hands up. “Fine, you can see another medic.” He stomped to the door, wrenching it open. “I'm only been running this clinic for seven vorns. But, fine.”

“Ratchet?” First Aid looked up from the tool he was cleaning.

“Your patient,” The elder medic grumbled as he stomped by. “I'm going back to Orion's.”

First Aid watched Ratchet sadly. The clinic's door slammed shut and First Aid stood.

“I apologize for his temper,” First Aid said, entering the exam room. “He's had a difficult couple of weeks.”

-

Orion was anxious to return home by the time he left the archives. The streets were relatively clear and the archivist arrived home just before the dark cycle began.

The apartment was silent and Orion worried for a moment whether Ratchet had made it back safely. First Aid had commed him earlier in the day to let him know to expect Ratchet back. The junior medic hadn't elaborated but Orion suspected that not all had gone as they'd hoped at the clinic. His fears were quickly relieved, however, upon hearing the solvent in the washroom was turned on.

Orion knocked gently on the door. “I bought some oil cake, if you're interested when you're done.”

“No, thanks,” Ratchet called back gruffly, voice indicating a clear “go away.”

The archivist sighed. If Ratchet didn't want to be disturbed he wouldn't push. Instead he drew himself a cube and turned on the holoscreen. A stout reporter sat in front of the Iacon senate building.

“-of Health Minister Ratchet.” The reporter's voice came through the speaker mid-sentence. Orion leaned forward in his seat. “The senator was reported missing nearly three months ago when he did not appear at the Iaconian General Hospital for work. The senate released a statement to the press just last night regarding Senator Ratchet. It is with a heavy spark that I am to announce that Senator Ratchet of Protihex joined the well of all sparks the night before he was reported as missing. The confirmed cause of death is suicide by electrocution.

“Although the frame was discovered only a day after the missing persons report was issued, the announcement of the senator's death has been withheld to allow Ratchet's friends and family to grieve, as well as to allow a private investigation into the suicide to be conducted without media attention. The senate has requested that they, nor Ratchet's family, be approached regarding the senator's death. A public funeral will be announced in the coming days. Sentinel Prime will be in attendance to honor the senator's life and to preform last rights. More information on this tragedy will be announced as it emerges.”

“At least we're sure they don't know I'm here.”

Orion startled, nearly dropping his energon. “Ratchet,” he breathed, staring bright opticed at the mech standing behind him. Ratchet was still dripping solvent, despite the towel in one hand. His optic was significantly dimmer than it had been that morning, though not as sickly pale. “Are you alright?” Orion asked cautiously.

Ratchet rubbed the towel across his windshield. “We knew this was coming. Doesn't bother me much.”

Orion nodded slowly. Ratchet was avoiding the question. “How was the clinic?”

Ratchet grunted, sitting on the couch across from Orion. “Wheeljack was right. They don't trust me.”

The archivist resisted the temptation to reach across the couch to physically comfort Ratchet. “I'm sorry,” he said instead, “I had hoped it would go better.”

Ratchet sighed, silently agreeing.

“Have you had any energon recently?” Orion was fighting to keep the conversation afloat.

“First Aid gave me a few cubes. I've been sipping them,” Ratchet assured. “Don't worry, kid. I'm just tired.”

“When is First Aid replacing your tank?” Orion set his cube aside, setting it on the lounge table.

“Tomorrow morning, if nothing comes up. He's going to do an exploratory exam while I'm under as well.” Ratchet fiddled with the towel, running it through his claws. “The drugs we're using are pretty strong. I'll need some supervision tomorrow. You'll be home, correct?”

“After my shift, yes. Though I don't have an alt capable of transporting another mech. You're not driving here, right?”

“First Aid has an ambulance alt. He'll cover transportation.” Ratchet sighed, “We’re going to have to shut down the clinic for all this.” The medic seemed to sag, still disappointed by his earlier experience with the clinic. His optic brightened with a small breath of “oh”. He pulled a datapad from his subspace, the one Megatronous had given him.

“Megatronous wants me to meet a friend of his, back in Kaon,” Ratchet explained, handing the pad to Orion to glance over. “Anyone you know?”

Orion hummed thoughtfully, quickly reading the letter. “Probably Soundwave. He's a telepath and a cassette carrier. I've never met him personally but Megatronous speaks fondly of him.”

 

“So you can't speak to his trustworthiness?” Ratchet sighed, obviously having hoped for more.

“I trust Megatronous,” Orion countered, “And I know he trusts Soundwave with his life.”

Ratchet's optic slanted in a smile. “You sure you two aren't involved?”

Orion chuckled nervously. “I'm sure. Megatronous isn’t interested.”

“Are you though?” Ratchet asked, honestly curious and willing to be nosy.

“I was,” Orion answered. “But he's made our relationship clear.”

Ratchet hummed, empathetic. “Know how that is.”

Orion raised a curious brow. “Wheeljack?”

Ratchet laughed, helm tilting back. “No. Primus, no. Wheeljack's like a sibling. Plus he's less interested in romance than anyone I've ever met. Starts to look ill if someone flirts with him.” Ratchet sighed. “No. An old classmate I was decently close to. He ended up an aft, so it was for the better in the end. Hurt like pit at the time though.”

“Wheeljack said you had a tendency to go for mechs with tempers.” Orion said without thinking.

Ratchet turned to stare at him. “Wheeljack?”

Orion's optics widened as he realized what he's said. He pulled himself up straighter on the couch. “Uh-” he stumbled, “I asked him what you looked like before, you know, before the empurata. He assumed I was asking if you were...”

“Aid first, now Wheeljack,” Ratchet huffed a laugh. “Seems everyone is trying to set me up today.”

“First Aid, too?” Orion asked, bemused.

“That kid's always trying to play match maker.” Ratchet vented deeply, holding the air for along moment before letting it out. “Going to berth any time soon?”

“Not for a while,” Orion replied. “I need to do some work on my dissertation tonight.”

“Ah,” Ratchet breathed. He was fighting not to sound disappointed.

“I don't have to,” the archivist back tracked. “It's nothing immediate.”

“No, no,” Ratchet waved him off, slouching into the couch. “Mind unmuting the holo, though?”

“Sure,” Orion sighed, doing as asked. The news channel had moved on to reporting of a local robbery. He set the remote next to Ratchet, standing. “I'll be in my berthroom if you need me.”

“You're leaving?” Ratchet asked, fumbling to pick up the remote up off the couch.

“My desk is in there.” Orion gathered the remainder of his engeron and his datapad. “And all my research.”

Ratchet nodded, seemingly engrossed in the news. Orion left without another word, wondering where he'd made Ratchet so uncomfortable.

He set his things down on his desk, pulling his more recent notes from the inbuilt shelf. He's gotten nervous, Orion realized. Ratchet was, Orion though, someone he desperately wanted to keep around. The idea of scaring the medic away was frightening.

Making and maintaining friendships had never been one of Orion's strong suits. He'd very nearly lost Megatronous' friendship early on in their relationship. He'd assumed too much and read too deeply into the situation. Megatronous had since explained his lack of interest in anything beyond friendship but the relationship was awkward and strained for a while after. Orion didn't want to make the same mistake with Ratchet.

Lost in his musing, ten minutes had gone by while Orion stared at the wall. With a shake of his head he clicked on the terminal. A message from Megatronus flashed on the screen. A new poem. The gladiator hadn't written poetry in years. Orion read through with wide optics.

It wasn't flowery like his old works. The words were blunt and too the point. It was obvious the gladiator was long out of practice but Orion found himself grinning widely. Ratchet was clearly the inspiration for the heavily political piece. Megatronus hadn't been rallied like this since Orion had met him. Perhaps he'd speak of more than just off world politics the next time Orion came to visit. Perhaps he'd take Ratchet's advice and write to the people instead of to the government. Orion hoped so.

Orion sighed, closing his connection to the datanet and resuming work on his dissertation. In the other room the holoscreen clicked off.

-

“I've closed the clinic for the day, put a sign on the door and everything. Tools are cleaned and I checked that we had a good quality tank in your size last night.” First Aid rambled, following his mentor back into what passed as a surgical suite in their small clinic. He was nearly giddy with nerves, though he suspected Ratchet had it worse. “All that's left is to get you put under and I'll start the replacement.”

Ratchet sat heavily on the berth, claws picking idly at the plastic sheet covering it. “Run though everything with me one more time.”

First Aid nearly rolled his optics under his visor. “Once you're in stasis I'm going to remove all of your abdominal armor and start a drip. Old tank comes out, new one goes in. I'll set aside the old tank for examination and move to your neck and wrists to replace the wiring. Those are to be set aside for examination as well. I have pads for your claws then I'll start the exploratory if your vitals still look good. I'm checking your spark chamber and engine first, then t-cog and processor, then all non-vital hardware.

“If the surgery lasts for more than five hours I'm to seal up and replace your armor. The stasis chip is set to last for six hours but I have extra if something goes wrong and you need to be under for longer.

“Once you're up we'll see if your up to going home or if you need to stay the night.”

Ratchet nodded, humming his approval. “You said you have the pads?” First Aid nodded. “Well let me see then.”

The junior medic handed over a set of four soft rubber pads in a plastic tray. Each had a pin on the backside that would slot into a hole First Aid would drill in the tip of each of Ratchet's claws. Ratchet carefully held one up to size it against a claw, nodding when it fit well.

“Alright,” He said placing the pads back on the surgical tray.

“Now, if you'll just lie back,” Aid instructed, selecting a stasis drive from his tray.

“Run though the tank replacement with me again.” Ratchet sat up straighter.

“Ratchet.” First Aid sighed, exasperated. “We went over the procedure this morning. I know what I'm doing.”

The chief medic nodded. “Are you sure these chips are strong enough? Have you checked the expiration on them?”

“Yes, now lie down please.” The younger mech gave his mentor's shoulder a gentle push back towards the berth.

“I'm just making sure I won't be waking up during this.” Ratchet remained upright.

“Ratchet,” First Aid ran a hand over his face mask, realizing where the sudden trepidation was coming from. “I promise you're going to be alight. I won't let anything happen to you.”

Ratchet sighed, slowly easing himself down onto the berth. His platting rattled against itself with nerves. “I know.”

With a gentle touch, First Aid slotted the stasis chip into a port in Ratchet wrist. “Count backwards from ten,” he instructed. “It'll be over before you know it.”

“I don't need coddling,” Ratchet protested, optic already starting to dim. “I'm nervous, not dull. I... I know how... this...” A gentle breath of his vents and Ratchet was fully in stasis.

First Aid glanced to the ceiling with a sigh. “Worse patient than the skivs, I swear.” He unspooled a diagnostic cable from his wrist and began what was guaranteed to be a long procedure.

-

“I have him on a pretty strong pain chip,” First Aid explained, one arm around Ratchet's waist as he led him to Orion's couch. “He'll be groggy and disorientated for most of the evening but if he seems ill or in serious pain, comm me. That can be a sign of his body rejecting the new tank.”

Orion nodded dutifully, almost wishing he had a datapad to take notes on. Ratchet seemed alright, if a little distant. He sat heavily on the couch, optic dim, and glanced about the room. His optic brightened some when he saw Orion.

“These are mild pain chips.” First Aid handed the archivist a small box of prescription medication. “He gets one every six hours starting three hours from now.” The junior medic glanced back at his mentor, who'd managed to maneuver himself into an awkward recline around his sore abdomen. “Knowing him he'll try to tell you it's okay for him to have more. He doesn't need more, don't let him trick you.”

Orion laughed softly. “One every six hours, no more. Thank you, First Aid.”

The medic snorted. “Should be thanking you. Comm me if you have any questions.” First Aid turned to leave but stopped at the door. “Oh, I replaced most of the wiring in his wrists and neck, so those will be sore for a while. He needs to use his hands though. Let me know if he won't grab things or won't close his claws.”

The archivist nodded, opening the door for his guest. “I'll let you know if I see anything suspicious.”

The door slid shut solidly behind First Aid and Orion sighed. When he turned back to Ratchet the empurat was watching with a wide optic. Orion sat on the love seat next to him with a soft smile.

“The surgery went well?” he asked.

Ratchet thought for a long moment before nodding. “Tank is all good.” His voice had a slight tired slur to it. “Found a lot of corrosion, though.”

“Corrosion?” Orion urged him to elaborate. “Where?”

Ratchet turned onto his back, legs draping over the couch edge and optic staring blankly at the ceiling. “Wrist, neck, fuel pump, brain module. Was worst on the wrists.” He held up his claws, as if to show Orion, when he spotted the small black pads on their tips. He clicked them together.

“In your processor? Ratchet!” Orion leaned forward, concerned.

“Well, yeah.” Ratchet sat up, managing a condescending deadpan with one optic. “They replaced my helm. Damp surgical room plus exposed processor means inevitable corrosion. It's not much anyway; nothing important.”

Orion sighed more concerned with how casually Ratchet brushed it off than anything else. He made a mental note to ask First Aid about it.

“I'm tired,” Ratchet suddenly said.

Orion smiled. “You just had a big surgery.”

“No slag, really,” Ratchet mumbled sarcastically.

Orion ignored him. “Do you want to go sleep in your room?”

Ratchet shook his helm, optic dimmer than moments before. “Can I stay out here?”

“Of course.”

“Will you be out here?” Ratchet tucked his helm against the back of the couch.

“Do you want me to be?” Orion gathered Ratchet's medication from where he'd left it on the side table.

Ratchet mumbled something unintelligible. Orion hummed questioningly. The empurat pulled his helm from the cushions. “Yes,” he said again.

“Okay,” Orion set the medication on the kitchen counter. He ducked into his study to grab a datapad and returned to his chair. Ratchet watched him sit, optic blurry. Orion gave a small smile and flicked on his pad.

When he looked up again a few moments later Ratchet was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always seem to end with people sleeping...
> 
> Oh boy, has this been a long time in coming. I really do apologize about that guys, graduating college and finishing my senior thesis was much more time consuming than I expected (happens when a project designed for 30 people ends up with only 5 of us working on it).
> 
> Hopefully things will start to get back to a more regular update scheduled, though I can't guarantee anything as I'm currently on the hunt for a full time job.


End file.
